


Kicking Roses

by hraundrac



Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Accidental Proposal, Aged up characters, Basically stemmed from the thought of what if the events of The Great Flood were a cultural thing, Domestic, Gambling, M/M, Mentions of Death, Mutual Pining, Nudity, Rumors, Snorkmaiden has two wives and runs a casino and you WILL get to see it, Snusmumriken | Snufkin Has Paws and a Tail, This is not actually wedding fic It's just drama, Trans Snusmumriken | Snufkin, Very unclear courtship practices, slow-burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:53:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 47,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22927516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hraundrac/pseuds/hraundrac
Summary: Moomintrolls had always built houses for their spouses. Pappa had done it, and one supposed every other generation had as well. There was nothing better than a house to cement one's commitment or attract a suitor.When Moomintroll, driven by a late quarter-life crisis, left the valley to do just that, he was not expecting said suitor to be an oblivious Snufkin. Especially after 4 years apart. But fate had other plans, and it seemed intent on not letting them move on from their childhood infatuation.
Relationships: Aliisa | Alicia/Ninni | Ninny, Aliisa | Alicia/Snorkfröken | The Snork Maiden, Mumintrollet | Moomintroll/Snusmumriken | Snufkin, Ninni | Ninny/Snorkfröken | The Snork Maiden, Snorkfröken | The Snork Maiden/Aliisa | Alicia/Ninni | Ninny
Comments: 92
Kudos: 132





	1. An Untimely Return

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so excited to finally start posting this!
> 
> Title is from the song Kicking Roses by Benjamin Francis Leftwich, but the actual theme of this fic is One Way To Pray by Sam Beam (Iron & Wine) and Jesca Hoop, if anyone's interested to know where my inspiration comes from.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"‘Anticipation is the best part,’ Moomintroll told her. ‘There might be something on every hook you know.’"_  
>  Tove Jansson, _Finn Family Moomintroll_ , 1948
> 
> -
> 
> In which an old friend makes an appearance, and the story begins.

For all its beauty, colours, and harvest, the transition from summer to autumn was rarely easy for most creatures. Days grew shorter; nights grew frigid; flowers wilted, and longing settled in lonely hearts. However, it remained a time of growth, with finer evenings among all the melancholy. The kind that weren't too cold nor too warm, where there blew a gentle breeze, sending dandelion seeds soaring into the air only to scatter them over nice steep cliffs decorated in shawls of green. Some less fortunate would fall down into a quiet bay somewhere, with its small jetty and jutting rocks, where a boat shook gently.

This bay in particular, was quite an interesting one.

Upon one of its bordering cliffs, guarded by wild roses, stood a tall yellow stove house, with its navy window panes and a baby blue roof—such a blue that one could see it fade into the sky on a sunny day.

By it was an equally yellow shed, and a well stocked vegetable garden, framed by large flat rocks. There was also a small orchard, and many bushes of various berries—currants, blueberries, lingonberries...

In many ways and one, from its layout to its construction and furnishings, this was a Moominhouse. For it had been built by a Moomintroll.

One very familiar Moomintroll, in fact. However not quite so young anymore.

This Moomintroll had perfected a very fine craft in the many years since his first attempt. No one's first house is ever perfect, not even his father's was, but this one was his second real house, and the last of many miniature models, and as far as second houses got, it was mighty fine. It had been modelled loosely off of his childhood home, after all. Though with his very own touch.

It had the same three floors, built round a tree with ample space, but the rooms themselves were another story.

The primary drawing room held large bay windows, far bigger than those of the old Moominhouse, and deck doors that were open almost in permanence. It gave the whole structure a more airy quality, and a view of the bay.

But it was not perfect. It was made of mistakes, in its own charming way—crooked windows and doorframes, tilted floors, and gaps where corners met...

Moomintroll was quite proud of his work. There was only hoping it would also be liked by its other occupant.

You see, what was particular about this house was that it was surprisingly devoid of people, for what it was. It was spacious, built to hold many, and yet it had only one sole inhabitant.

This was a house in waiting.

But that wasn't unusual for Moominhouses. All of them start out lonely.

27 months and 4 days.

That was how long Moomintroll had been waiting before it happened.

He was having a fika break with his neighbour up the hill, an old male Mymble with a reckless streak, an intimidating wife, and an equally intimidating talent for making any planned gathering go terribly wrong. Despite his poor event management, however, said Mymble made the best cinnamon buns in their little seaside community of Rosbuk. And decent enough coffee, which was just perfect for fika. Moomin always made time to stop by, even if it had to be unannounced and at inconsistent hours.

They were on his porch, going over the new additions to the old Mymble's ever growing collection of hats, when a bird began to sing out in the yard.

It came as a dreadful pull, catching on Moomin so suddenly that he practically jumped out of his seat and over the bannister. His feet took him forward of their own volition; his ears deaf to the confused calls of his neighbour; his eyes blind to anything in his path as he barrelled down the hill into his small orchard. He ran through bushes and bounced off his apple trees, caring not for scrapes and bruises, determined only to get to his door as fast as he could, following the sound of music as if under a spell.

He came to a stumbling halt as he emerged from beside his house and saw the source. For a brief moment, he was confused; for a brief moment, he thought the world was playing a rotten trick on him.

He felt time falter behind him like the streak of a comet, destined for impact; for catastrophe, but also destined for something new. A restart, a wipe and repurpose.

It was set up like every dream Moomin had ever had about that moment, even long before he'd planned it, when it still existed only in his childhood imagination—a lone figure standing on the path to his door, gilded under the warm evening sun, and playing a soft song that dug its way into Moomin’s chest.

The person was dressed in pale, washed out blue. There were off-white patches on the hem, pockets, and elbows of their smock with what Moomin thought might have been flower patterns, a tell-tale glint of embroidery.

They wore a hat, worn and fraying felt, the same shade of blue. But what caught Moomin's interest was not its colour, but its shape—it was unmistakably that of a mumrik. Funny, that, he thought... Around its brim sat a wreath of yellow, red, and white flowers that complemented what could be seen of the stranger's long, tousled hair, swaying in the breeze and revealing strands of red and gold among the fiery orange when the sun hit it just right.

Moomin's gaze drifted lower, over his dark navy pants, stitch-striped vertically and ending cuffed at mid-shin, giving way to worn brown boots. Very familiar brown boots, in fact. Moomin's gaze snapped back up, now searching.

He couldn't see their face behind the large brim, nor could he tell if they had noticed him. They seemed entirely focused on their instrument—a harmonica. It felt wrong, unfair, pulling at Moomin's heartstrings. He didn't know how he'd missed it.

Briefly, the musician lifted their fingers from the comb, and one end of the instrument caught the light. Moomin saw its gold casing shine over the rosewood, and his heart very nearly stopped.

It wasn't a song he recognised, but he could hear it now, the familiar quality of it. He could see the way in which the mumriken stood, heels close together, toes angled away; the way they swayed gently with the tune, tilting towards specific angles as if pulled by the notes; the way their paws moved, their arms, their elbows... And he could hear the breaks in the music where they paused to inhale.

It was all coming back to him, those little quirks he had grown up with—deeply familiar details he had never actively taken notice of, but that had buried in his mind either way.

Moomin didn't know how to feel. His body wouldn't let him move. He stood completely frozen, clutching onto a low branch of his apple tree. Hoping, praying… He didn't know what for. To be wrong? To be right? Both outcomes were equally as exciting as they were terrifying.

As it turned out, he didn't get to decide on anything. The guest lifted their head, and Moomin's fate was sealed. There it was in all its glorious and frightful detail, the event horizon.

Of course it was him. Who else? He'd been silly not to recognise him from the start.

He knew those large, heavy lidded and ever warm eyes, the shape of his dark, fuzzy nose, the curl of his mouth behind his harmonica. He knew them all too well to even try fooling himself.

27 months and 4 days of waiting for a suitor—for someone who would marry him. And after all that time away, all those dreadfully lonely days, all those nights spent trying not to miss his friend, Snufkin was the first one at his door, at the worst time possible, and Moomin feared they'd gotten wrapped up in something very serious. Which was par for the course for them, of course, but he wished it could have been any other kind of serious.

Anything but this.

And yet, all Snufkin had to do was slip his harmonica back into his pocket and open his arms wide, and it was as if all of Moomin's apprehension was knocked out of him. The dam broke, and all he could do was run to his friend. He just barely managed to hold himself back from leaping into the smaller man's arms and crushing him under his weight. Instead, he redirected the momentum, lifting Snufkin into his own and holding him tight to his chest as he cried into his wreath, likely smushing the flowers and ruining it.

Snufkin didn't seem to mind in the least, wrapping his arms around Moomin in turn. His thin, furless digits dug into the troll's back, and Moomin could practically feel a connection between them reignite with the contact—a fishing line reeling back tight, like there had been a single string unspooling between them all this time, until it was brought right back, quickly and strongly.

Moomin had never felt such an intense hunger for touch. It thrummed under his skin, a dormant sensation, and he squeezed the smaller body closer.

Soon, Moomin knew, as he always did, that the line would be cast again. And though it was back for now, it could not be kept coiled forever. Brief as one unhooked a fish, he fed on its bounty, and resolved to start the long process anew.

Snufkin's arms loosened around him, and Moomin, ever considerate of his friend's boundaries, quickly set him back down, and stepped back for good measure. The empty hook fell a short distance down. But they were both smiling wide enough to turn their cheeks red and painful.

Goodness, Moomin has missed him terribly. It was a longing which had no option but to dull over the course of their time apart, but he had never stopped missing him. Funny how one could bear it for so long and then find themself so utterly vulnerable to it once it was partly quenched.

He was hyperbolizing, of course, but he was keen to think he'd never been so happy in his life. His head felt full of sunlight. He couldn't form words, didn't even know where to start. By his tail, it had been so long. They'd missed so much of each other's lives. Moomin had many things to tell him and just as many things to ask. But they were ill-equipped to start scaling that mountain so soon. All they could do was stare at each other and wonder at all the ways they'd changed and, also, stayed the same.

A loud whistle rang out from somewhere behind them, and just like that the whole atmosphere came crashing down.

Moomin turned petulantly to find his neighbour who, of course, had followed after him. With great effort, if his hunched frame and the paw pushing down on his lower back were anything to go by. He was smiling widely at them, somehow delighted. It was inexplicable to Moomin in that moment. He could almost feel fumes coming out of his ears.

"Splendid! About time! So there's the lucky fella!" the Mymble cheered.

"Hullo," Snufkin called out politely but hesitantly. The first word Moomin heard from him since his return, and it wasn't even directed at him. "What _ever_ do you mean?" His expression was wide-eyed and puzzled and Moomin remembered once again that this was an odd predicament they were in.

The Mymble only laughed, as if it were a joke, and Snufkin turned to Moomin in question instead—Moomin, who fumbled under his gaze and found nothing to say. "I uh…" Oh dear. He took a deep breath and steeled himself, looked away from Snufkin, stood a little straighter, and let the words pour through in a cracked voice. "I've got a lot to explain. I think you should come inside."

Snufkin blinked worriedly up at him.

"Inside? Surely it doesn't require that." He sounded reluctant. Not unexpected, of course. This was not how one approached difficult topics with folk who dreaded houses. Moomin felt a little bad for forcing him into one so soon, but damage had already been done and he was keen on avoiding more. There were prying eyes and ears about.

He tilted his head towards his intruding neighbour, hoping Snufkin wouldn't blame him terribly. "I'm afraid so."

"Nothing dreadful, I hope," the other pondered even as he acquiesced, and bounced his pack to readjust the straps over his shoulders. It had hardly slipped, but Moomin did not comment on it.

He did not comment anything at all, in fact, finding himself quite unable to speak through the sudden lump in his throat. He simply turned and started making his way to his door, glaring at his neighbour as he passed. The realisation appeared to sink into the old Mymble's head right then that he might not have been welcome. Moomin would have to speak with him later.

But first, he had to speak with Snufkin. 

His old friend fell quickly in time with him, and then Moomin was urging him inside.

"I thought you might like to see me," Snufkin spoke in the entryway once Moomin had closed the door behind them. His voice was much too steady, as if cautious, and his eyes were fixed on the wooden beams of his bare ceiling. It broke Moomin's heart to know he'd made him unsure.

"Of course!" he exclaimed, putting as much genuine feeling into the words as he could muster. It was true, after all. "It's just… You see, there is a bit of a problem. With the timing."

"A problem?" Snufkin turned to look at him fully just as Moomin passed by. The mumriken's fingers curled around the straps of his bag.

"Yes. Do sit down," Moomin advised as he ambled his way into the open kitchen by the entrance so that they wouldn't crowd the space. "You can leave your bag wherever you'd like."

Snufkin looked almost startled by the concept of sitting down, wide eyed and nervous much like a lost thing. He shifted from foot to foot on the carpet, before slipping the bag off his shoulders and resting it against the closet doors. He stood by it for a moment, and when he finally dared to make his way into the drawing room, it was with hesitance and his limbs pulled close like he wasn't sure he was allowed to take up space.

Snufkin would need time and patience to get adjusted, Moomin knew, and oh he had to stop watching him. If he kept it up he was only going to fret. His chest felt akin to a cracked egg, slowly pouring out of its shell. He turned around in his kitchen and just stared at the farthest wall, with its preowned stove and oven. Dinner. He should make something for them, he thought, even as his own stomach turned. Still, he headed for his ice box.

"You must be hungry. I have fresh fish from this morning," he suggested. Cool air burst out as he opened the box. And then he immediately closed it again, remembering he'd already taken the fish out to thaw a few hours ago, the bucket sitting on his counter. He wasn't thinking right.

"What kind?"

What kind? Moomin shuffled over to it and popped the lid. He stared inside, trying to remember, or figure it out. His mind felt terribly jumbled. If he knew, the name just wouldn't come to him. Snufkin was always good at identifying fish. He could do it almost at a glance, figure out what his new catch might be simply by its shadow or colours under the rippling water. He'd told Moomin the names of them many times, but they never stuck for some reason. Snufkin always had to tell him again. It never seemed to upset him. In fact, he always looked to delighted to do so.

Moomin knew all he had to do was angle it in Snufkin's direction and the vagabond would let him know what kind it was. But something kept him back, some great embarrassment. Instead, he said, "I don't remember."

"Did you fish them yourself?" Snufkin asked, and there was an understanding to it. His mind had gone to the same place, it seemed, and Moomin felt a mix of emotions boil inside him.

"No, I got them from the fisherman," he admitted almost shamefully.

Moomin loved to fish. Or he used to. He hadn't realised until that very moment that he'd never once gone fishing since he'd settled here. He didn't even own a fishing rod. It was strange, all of a sudden, that he'd been living here all this time and hadn't felt the urge to fish. Was that bad?

Snufkin only grunted in that noncommital way of his. "No matter. Fish sounds good." And his voice was just a little less strained when he said it, and perhaps it eased Moomin's mind a little too.

Moomin set the lid down, and his eyes were drawn to Snufkin again, before he could help it.

He had made his way into the living area, around the green fabric couch that Moomin had built and upholstered, and was staring out the large windows. Anyone could tell from his posture just how much he wanted to be out there. An odd sense of pride settled in Moomin's chest. He understood why. It was a beautiful view of the cove opening out into the sea. The sky almost bled into the water on the horizon. Moomin had built his house with the windows to the west specifically so he could have that view.

But for all its beauty, he could not find himself as fascinated by it in that moment. Instead, his eyes slid back over to Snufkin. He was clutching his hat to his chest, fingers twitching on the brim with that telltale itch to escape. How often did he take his hat off? Moomin couldn't remember. It was a small thing, but he saw much meaning behind it. It itched at his dull heart, bounced around his mind like a difficult question. They hadn't seen each other in so long, they were in a different place, somewhere Snufkin wasn't comfortable, and yet he took off his hat.

"Won't you sit down?" Moomin asked again, and Snufkin glanced back at him, pulled out of his trance. And then he looked the dining table, bare polished wood, with a single empty vase in the center.

He walked back around the couch, approaching apprehensively, and swiped his fingers over a corner, lifting them up to his face in confusion.

"It's… dusty?" Snufkin stated, bafflement evident on his face. He had probably never seen a table in Moominhouse so dusty. They were always in use, always something being moved from one to another, or someone scampering over them.

"Oh! Sorry! I haven't had anyone over since I built it," Moomin explained. Evidently it made little sense to Snufkin, whose brow creased.

"Tough time bonding with the locals? That fellow earlier seemed to know you well enough."

"Oh no, the locals are wonderful! We get along just fine. It's just, I can't."

"You can't," Snufkin repeated, enunciating it as if he wasn't sure he'd heard well.

"It's… what I need to talk to you about. You should sit down," Moomin urged of him once more. He was being pushy, he knew. He could see Snufkin's spine curl like he'd been deeply offended, but as much as Moomin didn't want to make him bitter, watching him stand around was only making the ball of anxiety in Moomin's throat grow ever larger.

Snufkin stared at the furniture, the dusty corner and the chairs that had not been touched or moved since they had been placed there. One could almost imagine the sound of them unsticking from the floor if one was to do that now.

And then he looked to the one end of the table that hadn't been neglected, with its old, dry food smears and the chair that wasn't pushed in properly, a pair of binoculars hanging off the back of it.

Moomin could see the gears turning in Snufkin's head, and released a breath as he realised his friend wasn't going to fight him. He knew what he was going to choose the moment the vagabond's eyes lay upon Moomin's usual seat.

And indeed, Snufkin walked around and pulled out Moomin's chair, and the eggshell in Moomin's chest split fully as the other finally took a seat and crossed his legs like he always did, with his hat in his lap and his fingers resting light and dainty around its shape. The yolk escaped and settled down in Moomin's stomach.

"Did mamma tell you to come see me?" Moomin interrogated suddenly, just to push that feeling away, and because he didn't know where else to start. But Snufkin must have heard somehow, and mamma's involvement was a possibility Moomin was beginning to consider.

Snufkin appeared genuinely taken aback by the question. "No? Was she meant to?" His voice dripped in not only confusion, but also curiosity. Moomin couldn't decide if the newfound knowledge made the situation better or worse, so he pressed on.

"Pappa then?"

"No one sent me," Snufkin told him, genuine but perplexed, and Moomin's hand spasmed nervously where it clutched the edge of the counter.

"How did you know then?" He asked, and immediately regretted it. If Snufkin hadn't known at all, and had only stumbled upon him… what would that mean?

Snufkin seemed to hesitate for a moment before speaking. "Well, perhaps someone did tell me how to find you. But no one told me to come." He appeared oddly nervous as he said this, and his free paw disappeared into his pocket. Moomin finally released the breath he'd been holding.

"Who?"

"My father."

Ah. Of course. Moomin could almost laugh. That man thrived on causing trouble. And trouble indeed, he had landed them in.

"What did he tell you?"

"Only that you moved."

"That's all?"

"Yes. Was there more to know?"

Moomin did know how to answer that question. Of course there was. But if the Joxter had told him more, would Snufkin have still come all this way?

"Well…" Moomin abandoned the fish and made his way around the counter, snatching a dish towel from a rack. He took his time pulling a chair out, the one perpendicular to Snufkin, naturally, and winced as it did in fact stick. He wiped the seat down. Snufkin followed him with his eyes, not troubled by the same worries that weighed on the Moomin's mind.

"What do you know about moomin customs?" The words spilled from him on a gamble, and he clutched the back of the seat tighty.

Snufkin's eyes flitted over his paws, and his lips curled into a soft, odd smile, as if it were a game he didn't understand but was happily indulging. "I know you celebrate Midsummer, and you—"

"What do you know about coupling?" Moomin interrupted. "Courting, marriage."

Snufkin's smile dropped, and his eyes grew large. "I… didn't know there were any customs… related to that."

"So, nothing."

"No, nothing," Snufkin answered, and stared at him inquisively.

Moomin sighed loudly, and hunched in, resting his snout between his paws and closing his eyes tightly. This was terribly difficult. Silence stretched between them, Snufkin seeming at a loss as he fiddled nervously with whatever was in his pocket. It clicked faintly, like a bag of dominoes being lightly shaken.

"How do I say this?" Moomin spoke, voice only a whisper.

"Whatever way you're able to," Snufkin reassured, though he had no way of knowing what it was all about. Moomin's heart pinched. Snufkin hadn't changed a bit. Even after everything.

It had started not long after Snorkmaiden got married, when she took over a casino outside of Moominvalley and moved away with her wives Alicia and Ninny, and become very very busy. That had been six years ago.

Their absence, but especially Snorkmaiden's, had changed something between the lot of them. Over a year later, they were sat on the bridge and Snufkin had told Moomin he would not be coming back in spring. Or the one after that. But someday, he'd said. Someday. Say, in five years, when he was good and ready and he'd had his fill. He needed to see more of the world again, had gotten constrained by the time limit. And Moomin had understood, as much as it had felt like the end of his world.

Another year after that, it was predictably Moomin's turn to get antsy, pulled out of depression by restlessness and irritation. Despite Little My and Sniff still sticking around as they had always been, he'd felt compelled to go out and do something with his life too. Something he'd both prepared for and avoided for a long time. Something all Moomintrolls had to do eventually.

"I… left to get married."

The words rang in his own ears. Snufkin's fidgeting stopped abruptly.

Moomin opened his eyes just as his friend schooled his expression back down, catching only a brief moment of open surprise.

"Oh?" He was avoiding his gaze, staring into the distance somewhere past the surface of the table. "To whom?" Moomin could see the stiffness in his jaw as he spoke.

"Well, no one yet. As you can see..."

"As I can see?" Snufkin's gaze refocused, and it took him a minute to piece things together. "Ah. The dust." Moomin nodded.

"I… built this house for them. Or, us."

Snufkin's head snapped up abruptly, pupils tiny pinpricks in his large eyes. His expression was rattled like Moomin had never seen it before. Moomin's breath stopped as he realised he'd misspoke, and stood up sharply.

"I and them, I mean."

Snufkin caught up with his words a second later, turning quickly away. He lifted his hat from his lap and placed it back on his head, and something dreadful pierced through Moomin with that simple act. Now he'd gone and done it. He wasn't sure how bad the damage was, but he'd done it. His throat closed up. A thought at the back of his mind wilted pitifully.

"And why the decision?" Snufkin prompted, and just like that Moomin had somewhere better to start from.

"I was ready."

Snufkin gave him an inquisitive look from under his hat, and nervous energy burst through Moomin. He sank into his seat quickly, the legs scraping against the tiles as it turned with the movement, and leaned forward, paws splayed on the table.

"You know pappa built Moominhouse, right?"

"Of course."

"Well, that's it. Usually, when Moomins get married, one leaves to build a house. And then their spouse is supposed to follow after them. Mamma and I did that, followed pappa to Moominvalley."

He wasn't sure if he'd told Snufkin the story before. It was likely, but it would have been so long ago that it hardly mattered. This wasn't about that, in any case. This was about the other part of it.

"But, sometimes when a Moomintroll is ready to marry, and hasn't found anyone, they leave anyway."

"Oh?"

Moomin stared up at the ceiling. "Um. I guess we're a nesting species," he laughed. "We build houses and hope that will attract suitors."

That got him an intrigued sound. "And what's the trouble?"

"Well… _you_ showed up."

Snufkin stared blankly at him. "That I did. I'm not sure I understand."

"Snufkin… I mean that… I mean that you…" The words caught in his throat. He didn't want to scare him, but if he wasn't specific enough then he might not understand what was so terrible about the situation.

He breathed in, and finally laid it out in the open:

"I mean that you proposed."

Snufkin's face was unnaturally still, controlled. His gaze flittered for only a second to the window, and Moomin regretted everything that had happened since they'd stepped through the door. He should not have told him anything. He should have kept it to himself.

"Oh… It wasn't on purpose," Snufkin spoke slowly.

"I know. I know it wasn't. But you still… well, you did it."

"So easy for such things to happen accidentally, don't you think?" His voice sounded light-hearted, but his absolute stillness betrayed his discomfort. It felt horrible to Moomintroll, though he couldn't have hoped for a better reaction. He hadn't ran away yet, after all.

"Yes… yes…"

"Aren't there clearer rules for these things?"

Moomin stared at him. "Rules… you, asking about rules? Never thought I'd hear that," he tried to joke, but the humour wasn't there.

Still, Snufkin cracked a smile, and Moomin knew he'd been wrong about him running away. He might have been sat in his chair still, but Snufkin was suddenly very far away.

"I don't much like them, but if you insist on such silly things you might as well do them properly."

"Yes, I suppose," Moomin answered nervously.

"It doesn't count, surely. You already know me," Snufkin stated, as if it were the simplest matter in the world. As if Moomin had been silly to even worry. And maybe he had been, a little. After all, Snufkin did have a point.

"Of course it doesn't count! But… the locals don't know that," his brain supplied, almost desperate for another problem, since its worries had not been eased. "It might cause some trouble."

"It shouldn't be a problem. Suffice to let them know." 

"Right, of course!" Moomin laughed again, but his voice was still choked and nervous. Snufkin had detached from the matter entirely, but Moomin had failed to follow, and been left behind in this dreadful place of worry. Much like always.

"Then it's just fine," Snufkin continued. _Just fine, just fine…..._

"Just fine indeed!" It was not just fine. "No problem at all!" There were so many problems. "I will just let them know."

"Well then, it's settled. Nothing to worry about."

_Right. Right, right, yes. Just fine, nothing to worry about._

But it didn't feel settled in Moomin's mind. In fact, it felt even less settled. It felt like what was previously carefully ordered had now been blown into disarray and he had no idea how to put it all back together. The whole concept of the custom suddenly felt very fragile. Where he had not questioned it before, it now was full of holes. And his and Snufkin's places in it were more confusing than ever.

If there was nothing to it, if it was only an accident, then why did it feel so important—so world shattering? Why did it feel like Moomin was being mocked by his very existence? Like there was something dangling in front of him, just out of reach.

Why did Snufkin's insistence that it was no great issue fail to reassure him?

Moomin sat staring at a seam in his table. He was second-guessing the way he'd cut it now. The grain ended abruptly and did not connect with the next plank. The knots were unevenly distributed. He didn't want to think of connections, or knots.

"When did you last eat?"

Snufkin's fingers tapped on the table in his periphery, thinking over his answer. His paw was on the same plank as Moomin's, and so Moomin took his away, worried the lines would draw them closer.

"This morning."

Moomin stood with renewed purpose.

He was going to make them dinner and forget all about it. Maybe he might even put aside the whole thing while Snufkin was here. Well, as much as he could, in any case. It was a distraction. He doubted anyone else would show up so soon, but just in the event. He could not overlook the possibility entirely.

He had grabbed a head of cauliflower from his vegetable basket when Snufkin joined him at his side.

"Might I help?"

Moomin knew it was pointless to refuse. He pulled the boning knife out of its block and extended it handle-first towards Snufkin.

"Can you fillet the fish? I'm not as good at it as you are. My cuts are always messy." It was true, but mostly it was just that Moomin knew Snufkin liked to prepare fish. He guessed there was something relaxing to the task, otherwise he would not have bothered with it as often as he did, when he could just have them whole. Frankly, in Moomin's opinion, it was more of a struggle than anything.

"Such things matter little when it's to be eaten," Snufkin said. Still, he took it without complaint.

"Well, I always pierce the gallbladder. And then it's bitter. So it does," Moomin argued, setting down a cutting board.

Snufkin held the knife with practiced ease, thumb rubbing against a rivet pensively.

"No you don't," he answered, something soft to his voice. "You always cut too far back for that."

Oh. Moomin flushed. Did he? "Maybe I've been trying not to do that," he told him, even though he hadn't known of his mistake at all. He pushed the bucket over to Snufkin's side. Snufkin grabbed the edge to bring it closer, and pulled one of the large fish out by its tail. He laid it down almost gently, and pressed a paw over its scaly side. He wasn't going to descale it, Moomin already knew. He never did. And he wasn't going to ask him to, even though Moomin did not like the skin with scales on.

So he turned around, and let him work. He rinsed the cauliflower under his tap and pulled out another cutting board while Snufkin set about preparing the fish, removing fins and then the head.

"Look now," Snufkin said suddenly, even as Moomin started on the vegetable. The troll paused, doing so—though Snufkin wasn't even making sure he was watching. He dragged the knife through the fish's underside carefully, and that was all Moomin could stand to see. It wasn't the gore, one had to get accustomed to such things when they ate fresh fish. It was the way Snufkin had done the motion so steadily, the way his finger pads pressed down on the fish's side.

"There. No accidents." But Moomin hadn't caught any of what he was meant to. He focused on the cauliflower, and tried not to think of Snufkin's hands.

A silence settled over them as they went about prepping the ingredients. At any other time, one might have called it a comfortable silence, like the kind they used to have. Perhaps for Snufkin it still was, but to Moomin it felt unusually and dreadfully tense. It made him push too hard on the knife, the blade banging against the wood as it went through a stem.

Thankfully, it was only a brief few minutes, and then they were left with a pile of cauliflower and four clean cuts of fish.

"Fried?" Snufkin questioned, angling his head towards him. Moomin glanced down at them, the skins still a line of silver poking from the underside. It was the best option, if he was going to keep the scales on. Moomin couldn't very well chew through those if they were baked.

"Yes. Can I leave you to season that?" He asked, retrieving a block of aged cheese. He thought it might go well over the vegetable, and it was easy enough to prepare.

Snufkin seemed thrown by the request. "Me?"

"You did want to help, didn't you? You and mamma both have a good taste buds for it. And I figure you might have something interesting with you." He ducked his head quickly, suddenly embarrassed by his thoughtless assumption. "If you want to use it on this, I mean. You don't have to."

It looked as though the thought had only just occurred to Snufkin.

"I do have something, in fact. I don't know if you'll like it. It might be a bit much for you," he stated cautiously.

"Oh please!" Moomin retorted, scrunching his brow in offense. "I can handle a little spice!"

That only made Snufkin break into chuckles, his eyes crinkling and his paw flying up to cover his toothy grin. "A little, yes."

Moomin puffed. "Let me try it, at least. I can't get used to it if everyone keeps pulling it away from under my paw. I swear, you're just as bad as my parents. You always let Little My shake a mountain of paprika on her food!"

"Well, Little My is something else."

"A little monster, is what else," Moomin grumbled. "Surprised she never turned into a fire breathing dragon after supper."

"Thank the stars for that. I think we've already had one too many of those," Snufkin commented joyfully.

"Nothing like what she might have turned into."

"I suppose so," Snufkin ended that topic with a smile. "Your spices?"

"In the drawer right of the stove," Moomin directed him. "You're going to use yours too, yes?" he insisted.

Snufkin sighed theatrically, but with clear amusement. "Yes, yes. Let me see what you have first."

Moomin started grating the cheese as Snufkin searched through the drawer, little bottles and shakers clinking noisily. Moomin glanced briefly over to him, catching him holding an unlabelled shaker up to his nose and sniffing it. Moomin didn't have much in the way of actual spice, apart from pepper and cumin. He could have taken the opportunity to get experimental but it seemed people here did not use anything interesting. His cabinet was mainly filled with a variety of dried herbs his mother had taught him about, things Snufkin likely recognised from the wild. It was fun to watch him identify them through smell.

The air between them was lighter now, and Moomin found he had missed little moments such as these. They hadn't gotten them until Moomin had picked up cooking properly, and then he had revelled in it every time they'd gotten a chance to be alone in the kitchen. It used to just be him sitting idly by while Snufkin went about making food at his campfire, or him washing dishes and doing other menial tasks while Snufkin helped mamma in the kitchen. There was something entirely different about actually cooking alongside someone, both working together and bustling past each other to reach this or that, sometimes bumping hips or brushing paws or wiping food from someone's face. It was terribly domestic.

In fact, it was perhaps exactly what he'd been hoping for, and then Moomin had to abruptly shut that door on his thoughts. He could not think of Snufkin like that. They'd just established that it meant nothing. There was nothing going on here. They'd cooked together before. There was no reason it should be different now.

Oh, grating cheese was no good. It left too much space for thinking. He set that all aside and moved to the stove, digging in the lower cabinet on the other side from where Snufkin was. They turned at the same time, Snufkin with paws full of jars and Moomin with a clean pot, and their eyes met. Snufkin smiled at him.

He had to break this atmosphere. If he let it go on for longer he may get used to it.

"Could you also fetch some fresh herbs from the garden?" Moomin asked, though he himself had less to do, and could very well have gone out for them. But he couldn't leave Snufkin alone indoors, he'd feel too guilty for it.

"What kind?" Snufkin asked as he walked past him and set the jars down by the fish. Moomin followed, heading for the sink. He turned it on and put the pot under it. It was so much more convenient to have a sink, rather than fetching water from the well as they used to.

"You know what seasoning you have. Go with whatever you think works best. There's chives and coriander and rosemary and uh... I forget what else..."

Snufkin hummed, lingering for a bit, and the fur on Moomin's back raised with anxiety, unsure if he'd done something wrong, until finally Snufkin's heels clacked on the tiles, moving away, and Moomin took the full pot out of the sink and turned just in time to nearly miss seeing him slip out the open deck door.

He dropped the cauliflower into the pot, the water rising almost to the edge. Then he set it by the stove, turned on the gas, lit it, and placed the pot onto the burner. With that done, he picked up the cheese grater again, and went back to the menial task.

He kept his thoughts at bay long enough to fill the bowl decently. But only for that long.

 _This was it, wasn't it?_ he thought. _This was what I wanted so terribly._

But it was all wrong. It was all wrong because there was an affection in Moomin's chest that he could not give an outlet to. It was all wrong because he was being unfair to Snufkin. Because Snufkin didn't want this, not in that way.

It had been a while since he'd felt torn like that about his friend. It had been so easy, when he'd decided to leave, to accept that there was no potential there. That hadn't stopped him from longing, but it had stopped him from thinking of it seriously. Snufkin had been an old ache, then. Now he was a snowbud again, attempting to bloom through the frost.

But Snufkin wasn't going to just suddenly feel for him like that. It was shameful of Moomin to even think of it. Snufkin was his own creature, not one to be tied down by silly things like romance.

Still, Moomin suddenly felt as though he craved to be hospitable towards his friend; to somehow pamper him and hold him steady; to be a shoulder to rest on. He felt soft deep down, a tenderness he wanted to spread forth.

If he could be a place of comfort to Snufkin… then regardless of the outcome, it would be enough.

He'd taken him out of his environment, after all. It was only right he give it back. Even if there were selfish reasons behind it too.

So yes, that was what he was going to do. They were going to have supper, and then they would rest. Perhaps nap, even. Perhaps Snufkin would let him lie beside him. He might not let him rest his head in his lap, or curl up around him, though Moomin would think of it, but there would be that presence, the sensation of another dear person by his side, and that would be lovely. Moomin's eyelids fell heavy just at the thought of it.

Snufkin would want adventures, eventually. But Moomin wanted so terribly to bask in a moment of calm with him, with no pressure to speak or do anything.

It was easier when they were young, it seemed. They would have sleepovers and stay up late for adventures and then stumble back tiredly. Or they would stay out to stargaze. And at some point or another, if they were drowzy enough and Snufkin was feeling right for it, they would close the distance and touch sides, hold paws, rest head upon shoulder.

Those moments grew rarer over time, but also more charged. They made every nerve spark, every heartbeat ache. Those moments left Moomin with something he could not place, the knowledge of an energy between them. Perhaps trust, and mutual understanding.

His stomach fluttered. That was all still there, surely. Or at least he deeply hoped it hadn't wilted in Snufkin, because it was still burning strong in Moomin.

How he would love to run his fingers through Snufkin's overgrown hair now; to wrap his heavy arms around him, slump into him. He could almost feel the texture of his smock if he tried to imagine it; the gentle rise and fall of Snufkin's chest, and the vibrations underneath.

It happened in an instant. Snufkin's heels sounded against the wooden boards of his deck again, breaking Moomin out of his thoughts, who felt disoriented by the intrusion. Snufkin set one foot inside and froze on the spot. Moomin watched him sniff the air, and then watched his eyes grow large.

"Moomintroll," he gasped, the name slipping out in a rush, pulled forth by distress, something Moomin rarely heard directed at him. Moomin took an unsteady step back from the counter, going cautious in his confusion, and in an instant Snufkin was slapping his pawful of herbs down and vaulting over that space, skidding to a stop in front of the stove. And with a simple click and the closing a valve on the gas tank, Snufkin was turning to him with a sharp gaze.

There was a flash in his eyes, of fear and determination. The kind of look Snufkin wore when he arrived just in those times when one needed him most. Moomin never understood how he had such a good sense for that. His timing was always impeccable and regardless of the situation he always seemed prepared to deal with it in at moment's notice.

"What were you doing?" His voice was raised only slightly, an illusion of composure that was enough to put Moomin in a corner.

"What?" He floundered. "I was just--"

"The gas was leaking," Snufkin spoke harshly, his facade progressively cracking. "Couldn't you smell it?"

Moomin blinked. He looked at the bubbling pot, the streaks of overflowing water that had extinguished the flame. Everything suddenly clicked. The drowsiness he had felt… "Oh…"

Snufkin moved quickly to open the windows as wide as they could go. Everything about his posture and body movement screamed anger, and it made Moomin feel ashamed for scaring him so, and embarrassed that he had made such a mistake when he should have known by now. This had never happened before, not since mamma had taught him how to use the stove properly. Not since he'd been cooking on his own.

"Snufkin…"

"Go outside, Moomintroll." It was curt, left no space for argument. Still, Moomin hesitated to move.

"I said go outside, Moomintroll," he repeated, sharper. "Get some clean air."

"But—the food—"

"I'll finish up," Snufkin cut him off.

"But I—" Moomin tried again, and that seemed to be the last straw. Snufkin's composure broke and he whirled on him.

"Moomin, I didn't come here so you'd gas yourself on the first day of me visiting!" He snapped, voice ringing in the space and in Moomin's ears.

Visiting. Right. He was only visiting. Why was Moomin getting so worked up? Of course he wouldn't stay. Nausea hit him suddenly, worse than the dizziness he'd felt before. He clutched the edge of the counter as the room started to swim. This didn't mean anything, and now Snufkin was angry and soon he would be gone and not want to come back and deal with his sorry self again and Moomin would go back to waiting for his spouse and—

A paw touched his arm, a firm but gentle pressure guiding him, and the next thing he knew, Moomin was outside on his deck, being sat on the picnic table, and before he could lift his head up, Snufkin was gone. Moomin panted through the nauseous feeling, and felt the coffee he'd had earlier threaten to come up. He stood abruptly and stumbled to the bannister, tilting over it, and breathing in the salty air.

His thoughts were still catching up with him, but Moomin knew he'd made Snufkin upset.

Snufkin…

Nothing was simple. Things should have been simple. Moomin had left to seek something that felt clear, no more difficult paths and uncertainties. And instead he'd only discovered a more rocky path, and more confusion.

He'd made a mistake, perhaps. He was further away from his goal than he'd started. And he was scared. And upset.

Upset at this custom, and whoever came up with it, at his parents for not being more specific, at himself for not questioning it.

He'd wanted this for so long and he felt foolish for it. Just like he'd wanted Snufkin for so long. He should have been over it a long long time ago. But he just could not escape it, it seemed. It would just come back to him.

Suppose he prefered that to the alternative, no matter what he said. The thought of losing feelings for Snufkin was perhaps more painful than the feelings themselves.

He didn't want a life without Snufkin in it. Try as he might to deny it, the four years they'd spent apart had been torture.

But the vagabond had promised he'd be back. And he had kept that promise, over and over and over again. But was Moomin deserving of him? Was he any good for him when he made such silly mistakes and worried over nothing? Snufkin always had to be there, to save him, or offer advice. Moomin had lost his chance to prove him one thing—that he was a grown and independent moomintroll and could care for himself.

In so many ways, Snufkin seemed to hold a knowledge and wisdom far beyond his years. He was the kind of person that felt as if they were hiding a greater truth about their nature. But that wasn't the case, Moomin had to remind himself. Snufkin was just Snufkin. He was much as any other mumrik, he just had a good sense and a brilliant mind. The kind that endeared Moomin to him terribly. And maybe that was why he always seemed that way, because for all his brilliance Snufkin still had many moments of absurdity, and surely was also prone to making mistakes. But Moomin had always looked up to him with admiration, and thought he'd tried to get over that in his adulthood, some things tended to stick.

He wondered if Snufkin ever had moments where he looked up to him. It was a silly thought, and he chased it off quickly as embarrassment settled over him. He wasn't one to be so self-centered. Or so he wanted to think.

Moomin sat back down, and tried to focus on his breathing and nothing else, until Snufkin joined him. They didn't look at each other, and neither spoke for a few minutes. Then, finally, Moomin said, "You didn't have to be so mean."

"That was hardly me being mean, Moomintroll, just concerned. What would Moominmamma have said?"

"Mamma certainly wouldn't have been so rude, kicking me out of my own house like that."

"She might have reacted in her own way but she would have still coaxed you out of the kitchen."

Silence stretched out between them again.

"Thank you," Moomin spoke softly.

"Of course," Snufkin answered, much the same.

"I didn't notice."

Snufkin didn't answer. And then, Moomin had a terrible thought.

"You didn't leave the food on the stove, did you?"

"No, I put it all in the oven."

"And the fish?"

"And the fish."

Ah. That was a shame. Suppose he didn't _have_ to eat the skin, but it just felt wrong not to do so in front of Snufkin.

The mumriken in question walked over to the edge of the deck and leaned on the balustrade, his back to Moomin. "This way, we don't have to keep an eye on it," he explained. _And so we can be out here together,_ Moomin understood.

He watched him stare out into the water, the wind pulling gently at his crumpled wreath and basking him in warm light. Aglow as it was, Snufkin's form seemed to melt comfortably on the railing.

"A very beautiful place you've picked," Snufkin commented, voice sounding far away, muffled by the bay.

Moomin sat up a little straighter at that, ears wiggling atop his head. "You like it?"

"It's lovely. Well... The natural scenery is." He pointed at something on the other shore, and though the tree jutting from the cliff face blocked his view from where he sat, Moomin knew what Snufkin must have been looking at. There was another house diagonal to his. Its shape was blocky, white and navy and bare like a blank canvas. It was reminiscent more of a large container than a home. Most of the trees around it had been cut, and it stood in a nearly empty grassy lot. The hemulen lived there, and all she cared for were bread clips.

It wasn't very nice to look at, Moomin agreed. It broke up the scenery, sticking out like a sore thumb. Thank goodness the tree was usually in the way.

"But apart from that?" Moomin questioned.

"Apart from that it's very nice. But we shall see." Suppose they would. Moomin hoped he wouldn't hate the locals too terribly.

"They're good, the people here."

"And many, it seems."

There was little point in saying it. Moomin knew Snufkin didn't like that. And Snufkin knew Moomin couldn't have gone where there weren't people.

"I don't suppose you were here early enough to name it?" Snufkin asked.

"Oh, no. It's called Rosbukt. You know how some people are with names. Frankly, I don't understand it. It doesn't say anything about who lives here. I like to call it Moomincove, it makes far more sense. But don't tell anyone that."

Snufkin's eyes crinkled. "I won't. Bit big for a cove, though."

"Moominbay doesn't sound as nice."

"Indeed."

There was nothing left to say, and Moomin assumed they would fall back into silence, except Snufkin had other ideas.

"It's troubling you this much..."

"What is?" Moomin asked, even though there was no point in it.

Snufkin turned his head towards him, and propped himself up on an elbow. Moomin's eyes focused on his handsome, sympathetic face.

"This courtship ritual… Was it so important to you that it go perfectly?"

"Well… no… maybe… It just seemed so straightforward that I didn't think."

"How does it work?"

"Huh?" Surprised by the question, Moomin lifted his head.

"I don't know anything about it, after all. Surely there has to be a method to it."

"Well…" Moomin thought for a bit. "As I told you, first you look for a place to build a house."

Snufkin hummed.

"It took a bit of planning at first, when I told mamma and pappa. Just figuring out what I was going to do. I asked the Snork to build me an engine for a boat."

Snufkin's paw slipped from his cheek, and he looked down at the water again.

"The one down there?"

"Yes."

"So you wanted to settle by the sea?"

"Moominhouse was by the sea," he gave as an answer, though something about it felt like a lie. Snufkin hummed again, urging him to continue.

"And then you're supposed to make these charms so suitors can find you."

"Charms?" Snufkin stood a little straighter at that, turning back again and regarding him curiously.

"Yes. Little wooden ones that you engrave a location on, with a loop of twisted yarn through them. Sometimes they're boring, but I carved mine into Moominhouse shapes."

Snufkin stared unblinking at him, taking a moment too long to respond. One of his hands slipped into his pocket again, as he tended to do when deep in thought, and his gaze fell to the handrail he was resting against.

"It sounds like a lot of handiwork."

Yes, it was. Moomin exhaled tiredly, remembering how long they'd taken him. "I made 64 of them, so they did take a while. But it was nothing like building a house. Suppose they were proof I'd be able to do this." He gestured to the building, and Snufkin looked up at it with a distant look in his eyes.

"And what does one do with them?"

"You hand them out so they'll travel, any which way. Usually to travellers so they can leave them at certain spots. I'm not sure what happened with mine. I gave some to Too-Ticky, and to the Joxter, and and a few odd characters who stayed at our house."

"Why didn't you get me to do it?" Snufkin questioned.

"I wasn't going to wait that long."

Brown eyes shifted back to him.

"Of course not..." There was something guilty to Snufkin's tone. Suppose that was quite silly of him to say. Moomin had waited for many things, Snufkin included. Even now, he was deep in it. And tomorrow again he'd likely find himself giving things their time.

He was a creature of waiting.

But that didn't mean he was patient.

Snufkin pushed himself off the balustrade, his hand slipping from his pocket.

"I ought to check on the food."

They ate in comfortable silence, as it always was with Snufkin. He didn't much like talking over a meal. Moomin was proud to say he held down the spice—garam masala, Snufkin called it, even as his nostrils itched a little and Snufkin kept glancing at him over his plate. Moomin hoped Snufkin was proud of him too. His friend did not address it, tearing flakes of fish with bare paws and licking his fingers afterwards.

When their food was done, they set aside their plates to wash later and Snufkin said, "Why don't I tell you of my travels?"

And so, snufkin told him all manner of stories from his adventures, from tales of giant catches, to hikes up the tallest mountains, the littlest of creatures and most breathtaking of views. And though Moomin did his best to picture them, in that moment Snufkin with the warming sun at his back and the glint in his eyes and the moving of his paws felt the most precious of all. His soothing voice became unfocused, a drumming in the background to accompany the moving of his lips, and it flooded over Moomin's senses. For perhaps the first time, Moomin didn't listen to Snufkin's stories, as he felt an old, loosened knot in his chest pull itself tight again.

Once night fell, Snufkin pitched his tent in Moomin's garden, between the currants and the roses, and Moomin retreated to his large, empty bedroom to write his parents a long letter. He stood up until the light from the green tent outside his window went out, and then longer still. He had a lot of questions he needed answers to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How spicy is that garam masala Snufkin's got? Who knows, but Moomin sure isn't used to it. Apparently Finnish usage of spices only goes as far as cumin and paprika??


	2. The Trouble With Neighbours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are dreadful guests, and books about angling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to formally apologize to Snufkin for making him experience a microagression

There came an insistent knocking upon Moomin's door early that morning. Earlier than the troll was used to waking, anyhow, especially when he'd been up most of the night.

Deeply confused and a little nervous, Moomin slipped out of bed.

To say that Snufkin had coped well with the news would have been untrue.

He'd tried to do a reading the night before, but The Lovers card had mocked him. It had fallen from the pouch when he'd first taken the deck out, face-up and angled clear as day in his direction. He'd stubbornly scoffed at it, and then twice more it had flipped itself over as he shuffled the cards, and at that point he'd given up on the idea entirely. Cards never had any shame in telling it as it was, and no subtlety when they wished to be horrid.

In his frustration, he had thrown The Lovers across the tent, left a few curt words with the moon for good measure, and curled up tight for a restless night.

Lady Fate was truly digging her cruel heel into this one.

There was no reason he had to come between Moomintroll and his future like that. Snufkin had long, long come to terms with his affections, and with the way things were to be. He was happy like that. There was no reason to change anything. To ask more of his friend would pain them both. He wasn't the person Moomintroll needed, and couldn't become it without betraying himself.

And yet, the universe seemed insistent on whatever it had planned. Dreadful. And to think he'd told Moomintroll it didn't mean a thing. He didn't believe a lick of what he'd said. Of course it had meant something. There was no coincidence to his arrival. There were too many things at play, all lining up together to bring Snufkin right here right then. He'd been drawn here.

He slipped his paw into the pocket of his smock, and touched meticulously hand-carved charms. A lead, were they? 64 of them, Moomin had said, and Snufkin had… he'd lost count, and was frankly afraid to find out. The yarn tangled between them, forming them into a single mass. It was only one, if he deemed it so; if they'd all found their way to him; if their target was one and the same.

And of the remaining ones, had any of them wandered into other hands? Or were they simply lost searching for him as well? Snufkin hoped there were other people who'd gotten them; hoped he wasn't so very doomed. And yet also, shamefully, he hoped there weren't any but him.

There was no doubt, things like this tended to mean something. But that wouldn't have helped Moomintroll. He hated lying, if it even counted as that. It was a nasty habit he'd only picked up only after meeting Moomin. _For_ Moomin. It was never about anything else. It was only about keeping him happy. There were so many ways to make Moomin unhappy, and he had to learn them to avoid them (for he, of course, hated to see him cry).

This wasn't going to make him happy. The truth of the matter would only upset him. He had already gotten himself worked up enough as it was, and Snufkin's arrival appeared to have been devastating for the poor troll.

Once again, Snufkin had found himself at a crossroads between fate and devotion and had chosen to follow the latter. Where the road would take him, he had not an inkling, but he had a feeling fate would round back to him eventually.

Light shone warmly through the green walls of his tent. Snufkin sat up from his bedroll, the material all too much beneath his body. He found The Lovers atop his hat, where it had landed the night before, standing against the brim like just another decoration. Bitterly, he opted to leave the hat altogether, and crawled out of his tent to greet the morning.

The sun greeted him with bright cheer, turning all colours of the land vibrant beneath its rays. He ambled barefoot towards the downwards slope of the cliff, where the tall rose bushes—all wilting flowers hanging from ripening red fruit—made way for the glimmering water down below. It looked as though the stars had chosen to go for a swim and gotten stuck, unable to rise back up into the sky, left behind by the night. _Like fire spirits_ , his mind supplied, and Snufkin buried that memory quickly.

Which proved not much of a challenge. There was something to the sounds here that put him in a good mood. It was the call of the sea, the wind blowing salty air, the birds calling as they swooped above the water. It was the echoey quality of everything, bouncing through the bay and muting all unwelcome noises.

So just like that, he was feeling perfectly fine. It was easy, on such a fine morning. One only had to let it wash over them and take with it all worries and ills. Snufkin had a fine talent for it. Thoughts pulled fruitlessly at the edges of his brain, unable to snag. Yesterday had been difficult, but the promise of a new day had swept him out of the cold waters and onto shore. He felt refreshed.

Well, mentally, perhaps. Physically, he was feeling rather the opposite. Snufkin wasn't one for keeping tidy, but when one was happy, the discomfort became apparent. When had he last bathed? A week ago? Two? All he could think was that perhaps he ought to freshen up, and then have coffee with Moomintroll.

He hadn't thought his friend would mind him borrowing the hose. He'd grabbed his bar of soap from his pack and stripped of his smock and undershirt when a loud slam stopped him in his tracks and a large white figure came bounding over from the deck, seemingly very hurried.

"Snufkin! What are you doing!" Moomin called with agitation, as if he'd been causing trouble and not merely getting ready for a wash. He told him as much, showing the hose in his paw.

Moomin crouched to pick up his discarded smock, then hastily—and much more, carelessly—pulled the article over Snufkin's form, trapping him beneath it like a net. Snufkin sputtered as his vision was compromised, before his head popped out of the neckhole. The smock was sideways on him and uncomfortable, bunched at his bent elbows where they came out from underneath. But he was not so concerned about adjusting it in that moment.

Rather, he was busy trying to make sense of the odd treatment. Moomin was in front of him, his own arms spread out wide as if to hug him, and Snufkin found himself only deeply confused until the troll explained.

"There's guests!"

The words struck something in him, sending his whole mood tumbling back down as if there were a glass vase inside his chest that someone had knocked over. Suddenly, the filth suited him far better.

"I have a shower, you know? You can't hose yourself down in my garden in plain view of everyone!" Moomin continued, still shielding him from the windows.

"And why not?" Snufkin retorted, perhaps more cross than he'd meant. If it weren't for Moomin's frame in the way he might have glowered at the large windows, though he was unlikely to see much inside through the harsh reflections.

"Why not, indeed!" Moomin echoed, aghast. "Have you gone mad? Have you lost all the chickens in the coop while you were away?"

Snufkin scowled at him. Moomin held his gaze for no more than a beat, before his eyes squeezed, as though he were trying to reel himself back. "I'll show you to the bath," he offered.

Snufkin didn't want to be shown. He wanted to turn around and go back to basking in the sun and being one with the dirt. "I think I shan't take one, in the end."

"Oh don't be like that," Moomin admonished, a blend if frustration and something else. His voice softened just so, gaining an airy quality that Snufkin hadn't heard in so long he'd come to forget it. His fur rose with a prickling of alarm.

But Snufkin did not get to dwell on it further, nor did he get to say a word, as Moomin's paw touched his back, and flowers caught in his throat, sharp thorns and a brush of soft petals effectively silencing him.

Moomin steered him away from the windows, to the denser foliage behind his house where there had apparently been hiding a set of stairs leading down to a sunken, slightly uneven, and unpainted door.

Moomin gently pulled the hose that Snufkin had dragged along with them out of his paw, and then his gaze flickered to the right with a frown. Snufkin, still stunned, followed it down to find his bar of soap squeezed mournfully between his fingers. He hastily released his grasp, leaving behind a set of five grooves, and felt almost ashamed to have let Moomintroll see that; ashamed to have shown a temper towards him at all. He felt odd. He didn't know where it had come from. First the incident from yesterday, now this. He was acting very unlike himself. Maybe coming back had been a mistake. Maybe he'd forgotten how to act around his friend; how to keep himself in check.

Moomin did not ask about that, but instead, "you're not still using lye soap, are you?"

Snufkin remembered they'd had this argument before—many a time, in fact— about how bad it was for his skin and fur. But Snufkin simply hated to let the ashes from his campfires go to waste.

"I thought I told you—"

"Yes, I know," Snufkin interrupted, his tone coming out lighter, as if the silly old argument was making him feel better. Was he feeling better? He couldn't quite say.

He let Moomintroll take the bar from his paw with a soft brush of his fingers, and chuck it somewhere in the grass behind him. Snufkin did not move to stop him, nor turn to see it land with a dull sound.

"Seems I'm not the only one Mamma would have choice words for," the troll said, a smile seeping through his voice. It pulled one out of Snufkin as well.

"Now," Moomin started, putting his paw on the doorknob. "My neighbours are at the dining table, so I'll have to walk you in through here."

Snufkin stopped him, stepping forward and impulsively resting his own paw over Moomin's and the doorknob before he could open it. "Your neighbours, you say? I thought—"

The fur of Moomin's cheeks rose in embarrassment before he could finish. "No, no! Not yet."

"I thought you didn't allow them in," Snufkin changed tracks.

"Yes, but now that they've _heard_ they think it's okay," Moomin sighed, his brow pinching. "This is ruining everything."

Snufkin held himself back from pointing out that if anything had been ruined, _he_ had done it first.

"Well, you're not going to marry them, are you?"

"What? No!" Moomin looked horrified at the mere idea.

"Same situation as I, then."

The reaction he received was indecipherable. The blue of Moomin's eyes locked upon his face long enough to make Snufkin uneasy, before the other finally spoke, with an unsteady rise of realisation, "No, It's not, actually. It's not at all. They didn't make a trip to get here."

"Oh?" Snufkin didn't like the sound of that. He didn't like it at all. One more thing to add to the list of correlations with himself. "Is that essential?"

"Very much so."

What a curious thing. Snufkin understood less and less the more he learned about it. "Then why haven't you allowed them in?"

"It's… more about letting the person experience it before anyone else."

Snufkin stared at him, the words not slotting into the puzzle he'd been trying to assemble. "But you've invited _me_ in."

He watched Moomin grow instantly nervous and fidget with his paws. "Yes. I did do that… Not that it matters, my plan was already disrupted so I thought… Oh, I don't know. I wanted you here."

The undelying claw of something twisted between Snufkin's ribs. Of course, he knew it; he'd been hoping as much when he'd shown up. But with what he knew now, it was a different matter altogether—a conflicting matter.

"This is all very confusing, Moomintroll."

"I swear it made sense in my head, somewhere, when I started!"

Must have been an awful lot of sense, what with how equally muddled his friend seemed. Of course there were always holes in norms, only this one seemed mainly consisting of holes. But Snufkin didn't say that. He slipped his paw off of Moomintroll's, who laughed nervously and finally opened the door.

The stairs lead into the cellar, as it turned out—all stale air, support pillars, and stone foundations. A corner of it had been turned into Moomin's workstation, with saws and tools scattered over a workbench under the small windows that hid below the deck. The floor was cold, rough and dusty against Snufkin's feet. Moomin walked him up some steps to another door which opened under the house stairs, with the big potted fern.

Right across stood the bathroom door. Between, the open corridor that one could see through from the dining table. Two loud, chattery voices rang through the space and reached Snufkin's ears. He tensed.

Moomin, ever perceptive, did not let him falter. He set his heavy paw on his shoulder, whispered an "okay," and before Snufkin could turn tail he was leading him briskly forward, putting himself between him and the open living space. Snufkin kept his gaze ahead of him even as the voices paused, and as quickly as that, he found himself safely inside the bathroom. Moomin closed the door and Snufkin finally exhaled.

"It's been raining a lot so the water tank is full," Moomin started as he released his shoulder and moved towards a shower curtain in the corner of the room, pulling it away. "So you don't have to worry. And I have hot water, so you can set it to whichever temperature you'd like."

Snufkin found himself hardly paying attention as he spoke, too busy looking around. It was a large bathroom, which helped his nerves a little. It had windows with shutters one could adjust. There was a large tub against the right wall, beside the shower—which itself was little more than a sunken section of tiles with a wooden platform, and a showerhead and hose against the wall.

"Here, I'll show you how it works," Moomin said, directing him to the knobs. He turned one of them and jumped out of the way with a startled yelp right as a cold jet hit him square in the nose.

Snufkin chuckled. "I thought _I_ was taking the shower."

Moomin wiped his snout into the crook of his arm, none too amused, then looked back at him, the water still running. "You'll figure it out, won't you?"

"Yes, yes," Snufkin assured him.

"Okay then." Moomin turned to go. "I'll leave you to it. Lock the door. If you need help, just yell."

And just like that, Snufkin was alone.

He pulled the lock closed, shimmied out of his trousers and smock, and ducked under the cold stream, letting it cool his head before fully stepping in. He didn't pull the shower curtain around him, feeling it too enclosing.

He tried the knobs, turning on the hot water for a moment. It took a few seconds for the temperature to adjust, and by the time it had, Snufkin had already decided it didn't suit him. He turned the hot water off and soaked in the cold stream for a few more seconds before turning that off as well.

He was thankful to see that Moomin only had one bar of soap sitting on the tray in the wall. More than one and Snufkin wouldn't have known what to use. How convenient that trolls were furry all over. Other folk tended to use two or more soaps, and it confused Snufkin terribly, to say the least. He might have even said it terrified him, in the case of his sister Mymble's bathroom, which he had only seen once (which was plenty).

Moomin's soap smelled fresh, a little minty and a little fruity. Snufkin lathered up fully, making sure to scrub his hair and the tangled fur of his short tail, before turning the water back on. Letting the suds rinse off of him, the thoughts finally found a place to stick.

"How troublesome," Snufkin muttered to himself. "I don't like this."

He had half a mind to just leave again. But he couldn't. Moomintroll would understand, surely but he would still be sad. And it had been so long since Snufkin had seen him sad. In fact, it had been so long since he'd seen him at all.

No, Snufkin himself wasn't ready to leave yet either. He'd come here because he wanted to see Moomintroll—needed to see him. The feeling had progressively grown in him after the first winter, and gotten to the point of unbearable when he'd finally made the decision that it was time to turn back.

Clearly he was still somewhat in that state. It seemed to seep into his actions, throwing off his composure and causing him to act irritably and think far too much. One could could not enjoy the world around them if they thought too much. He didn't know how long it would take to get it in check again.

Snufkin turned off the water and stepped out onto the cold wet tiles. He wringed his hair and shook the water out of his tail, and then he felt at a loss. Usually he would dry out in the sun, but he couldn't do that here. He stared at the shelf of rolled up towels, clean and likely unused. No, certainly not. That wouldn't do at all, Snufkin thought. He then noticed the rack on the wall above the tub, and the crumpled baby blue towel hastily stuck into the space between the rungs. Carefully, Snufkin rested a knee up against the edge of the tub so he could reach, and pulled the towel loose.

He held it for a moment, hesitating. This was Moomintroll's. It was still slightly damp where it had been creased, which meant he'd likely used it the day before, and if it had been left as it was any longer it might have started to smell of mildew.

Snufkin squashed the guilt in his mind and brought it to his nose. Of course, it smelled only of Moomin's soap. He tried to pinpoint anything else, but there was nothing. He held it there for a moment, just taking it in, closing his eyes and pretending he could smell Moomin on it, and that he wasn't in an unfamiliar closed room. He buried his face fully into the fabric, then pulled it over his head to ruffle his hair dry.

When he was done patting himself down, he hung it back—not quite as messily as Moomin had, but still not in a manner one would call carefully.

It took some resolve to exit the bathroom. He could hear the back and forth of conversation through the door and tried to focus on Moomintroll’s softer voice among the shrill ones.

When he emerged, clean and modestly redressed (excluding undershirt, mind you, which had been forgotten in the grass—and socks, and hat), he was greeted by three pairs of eyes from the dining table across the hall. Snufkin took a deep breath, and Moomin came to his aid.

“Snufkin! Let me introduce you,” he spoke, wrapping his arm around his shoulders. He leaned into him, trying to look inconspicuous—a feat not all successful thanks to his taller stature—and whispered, “it’ll be okay,” and as much as Snufkin did not want any part of this, he had to trust him. 

He was ushered towards the guests, whom Snufkin could now assign faces to. Two tall fillyjonk women, dressed impeccably and boring into him with curious and excited eyes. They sat at the table around full cups of coffee, various half-empty dishes, and what remained of a hastily put together smörgåsbord, with reikäleipä, ham and cheeses, creamed roe, and a few things from the garden, as far as Snufkin could see.

“This is Miss Fillyjonk,” Moomin spoke, gesturing to the younger of the two guests, with auburn shoulder-length hair that swept out at the ends, covered by a yellow cap of the like most fillyjonk wore. She had on a matching yellow lace-trimmed dress, and appeared as though just barely holding herself back from exploding with questions.

"And this," Moomin said as he turned him to the older of the two, “is her sister Madam Fillyjonk.” The first thing Snufkin noticed was that she had an air of grandeur about her, hair styled up with what must have been an unimaginable amount of spray, and adorned with pearls in favour of the same headwear as her sibling. Her face spoke of haughtiness and Snufkin already found he did not like her very much. He squinted apprehensively.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to sit through this, but one had to be polite. He did not get to coldly introduce himself in turn, however, as the youngest of the fillyjonk lost her patience, her sudden voice loud and piercing to Snufkin's ears.

"So you do bathe! I'd have thought you would stink like a Groke's foot but it seems Moomintroll has landed himself a proper catch after all." And there it was. And not even from the fillyjonk Snufkin had been most wary of, so he still found himself caught off guard, hit with it like the first stray stone of a rockfall. His blood instantly boiled, prepared for the same old thing he was used to hearing.

"Now, now," the other woman laughed, "let's not get ahead of ourselves. One would hesitate to call what he was about to do proper bathing. And no shame at that! At least Moomintroll intervened."

"Well yes, that's what I'm saying! One could make a fine gent of him yet, with some work." _Oh. Oh._ Snufkin felt his claws poke into his balled fists. His tail stiffened angrily under his smock.

"I truly do wonder about that. I hear they don't cope well indoors, mumrikar. Get all destructive. Steal things." She looked Snufkin straight in the eye then, bringing a paw to her pearls protectively. "Dreary me, you don't steal do you?"

"He wouldn't!" Moomin defended, cutting through both the accusations and Snufkin's anger.

Right. Moomintroll was here. Moomintroll wasn't going to stand for this. Snufkin glanced at him, and knew they were thinking the same thing. They both well aware he'd stolen before, but he had no care for her jewelry, or likely any other possessions she owned. And he wouldn't steal from Moomin what he wasn't allowed to take.

"Do you trust him so much?" asked the youngest, and Moomin fluffed up further, upset by the implication.

"Of course! I've known him most of my life and I wouldn't trust anyone more." Snufkin looked away. Oh goodness… what a faithful moomintroll.

The eldest fixed her eyes on Snufkin again. "But would you be able to stay? Husbands should live together, you know." _What a question. Of course not_ , Snufkin thought. _And why should they!_

"Why should they?" Moomin's voice cut in again, echoing his own thoughts. Snufkin's gaze snapped to him again. "We've been working out fine as we are… And—and!" Moomin stammered for a moment. "And we're not getting married, anyhow! I've told you, it's not like that!"

The Fillyjonks burst out laughing, the kind of manicured, controlled laughter that one only heard from people who were very strict about their own appearances. The Madam waved her paw dismissively. "Of course you are. It's how it works!"

"It's—!" Moomin was cut off as the guests moved on to their next line of questioning directed at Snufkin.

"Well can you cook? Clean?"

Of course he could. Any vagabond worth their salt could cook and clean, his father exempt.

"Can you host a party? Moomintrolls do love to party, you wouldn't want to keep him from that, would you?"

Snufkin also loved a party, if it was a small and short affair. He honestly could not say if Moomintroll would even care to party any longer than that. He always sneaked off with him, after all.

"I can help, and supply the music," Snufkin managed to speak.

"Ohhh! He can play!" The fillyjonk lauded, turning to each other in excitement, their entire demeanors changing on a dime. "Romantic!"

"Oh I see! So he's that kind, a true artiste! Well, one cannot speak against an artist's eccentricities."

Snufkin took note not to mention that he also wrote poetry. He would loathe to hear what they had to say on the topic.

"Indeed, indeed, as long as he bathes!"

"Of course, of course. Oh, I see it now, they're always hard to understand, these types. Want to connect with nature, and what not. Want to break rules."

"Yes, yes! Oh, did you hear about that new one, what's his name? Got very famous out of the blue, had an exhibit last month. Very strange things."

With the shift in the conversation, Moomin took that opportunity to move Snufkin somewhat away from the harsh judgement, steering him once again by the shoulders. Snufkin went limp as he was pushed down into the same chair he'd taken the previous day. There was an empty cup and plate in front of him, and Moomin swiped the cup in an instant, filling it with coffee. Steaming, a new pot, thank goodness.

Snufkin took it gratefully as Moomin stole his plate next. He made sure to pile it high with food. The guests didn’t seem to notice, too absorbed in a conversation that Snufkin was tuning out. But Snufkin noticed, flushing bright pink and eyeing the troll awkwardly as he waited for his plate to be returned to him. Moomin shot him a guilty look, but Snufkin knew he could not dissuade him. It seemed without Moominmamma around, Moomin was taking on the full task of fussing over him, and Snufkin didn’t quite know how to feel about that. Had it been anyone else he would not have sat through it.

Moomin set his food down in front of him, and Snufkin started digging into it, tuning out the world around him. It wasn't a Moominmamma breakfast, but he couldn't mind. It was still delicious and familiar, and a single bite into the bread had him quite convinced. How had Moomintroll become such a remarkable cook?

Silly thing to ask himself. Moomintroll was remarkable in every way. It was just one of many things. Splendid troll…

Snufkin watched Moomin's snout move as he joined in on the conversation about… whatever it was. He didn't care. He watched Moomin gesture, fork tiny in his large paw, cherry tomato on the end, bursting as he brought it to his mouth and bit into it.

Snufkin averted his gaze and chewed quicker.

Soon enough, he was finished and Moomin started gathering the dirty dishes, stacking Snufkin's on top of his. Without the food to keep him busy, Snufkin found himself quite agitated again. He didn't want to listen to whatever the fillyjonk were going on about. He didn't much care for it, and their voices were shrill and grating and Snufkin was growing tired of hearing them. He wanted to leave, and he would have, were it not for the fear of being noticed if he stood. Irritation was building up in him, so instead he pulled out his pipe so that he could smoke it out.

Of course, in the end it did little to avert the inevitable, as the fillyjonk noticed _that_ instantly.

“Put that away, young man!” the eldest started just as the youngest spoke, “oh, you shouldn’t! Moomintroll quite minds the smoke.”

For once, Snufkin was successfully stopped in his tracks, bit halfway to his mouth. Moomintroll not liking the smoke? Now that was ridiculous. He looked over at his friend, seeking confirmation. "What's this now?"

Moomin fumbled with the plates, appearing caught off guard. He made eye contact with Snufkin, and Snufkin stuck his pipe in his mouth, in question.

“I don’t dislike it!” Moomin spoke quickly. “You can smoke!”

The fillyjonk leaned in over the table, zeroing in on him like beasts thrown a good cut of meat. He’d just given them material to yap about, now—a very reckless thing to do, but it was too late.

“It just… well, it makes me homesick,” Moomin explained.

Oh. Snufkin felt a bit inconsiderate, suddenly. Suppose one had that right, to feel homesick. Snufkin would not have said he'd ever experienced a thing such a homesickness, for of course, he had no home. But he had long known the feeling of missing places, or people; that insistent pull that made one unable to settle, unable to focus or distract oneself. An old memory, poorly buried, floated painfully up to the surface, and for a moment Snufkin almost mistook the fillyjonk figure in front of him for someone else. He tasted the familiar, starchy, salty flavour of sea pudding on his tongue—not Moominmamma's, but one quite different, only had one November very long ago.

Snufkin went to put his pipe away.

“No! No, no!” Moomin reacted, perhaps a bit louder than he’d meant, as he recoiled at his own voice. “It’s all right! Please do!”

Snufkin looked up a him, unconvinced. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Moomin spoke, and his eyes were intensely focused, as if it were only them in the room. “I’d like you to. This is… a little bit like being home, isn’t it? Just a bit.”

Oh. Snufkin felt a sudden fluttering then. He ducked his head, face burning hot, and hid his smile as best as he could without his hat. When was the last time they'd been here; the last time Snufkin had soothed him over such matters? The last time Moomin came crying to him over missing parents and Snufkin had cooked for him and shared his tent? No, it must have been more recent than that. Perhaps back when he'd tried to leave with him to escape that silly pretend game with Snorkmaiden, then. It had taken so little time for Moomin to get homesick, really. Snufkin brought his pipe back to his lips, the corners curling around the bit.

The guests cut back into the conversation, not tentative in the slightest. The Madam in particular did not seem pleased by the turn of events. "You shouldn't let him do that indoors," she argued at Moomintroll. "Terrible for the wallpaper!"

Preposterous, Snufkin thought. Moomin blinked at her, appearing to think much the same. The Fillyjonk puffed her chest as of she'd won an argument, and then Moomin asked, "are you done with your plate?"

She deflated just like that, turning visibly indignant instead. Snufkin bit onto his pipe to hold back his laughter. He didn't know if she was going to drop the subject anytime soon, but he saw in it an opportunity and took it. "You know what, she's right!" he exclaimed, voice overly agreeable. "I truly ought to go outside."

He didn't miss the way Moomintroll's brow knit, nor his quiet argument, begging not to be left alone with his guests. But as far as Snufkin was concerned, this was hardly his problem. Moomin's neighbours, Moomin's house, Moomin's business. Snufkin had no guilt about running. Not from this. He gave Moomin a smile that told him as much, and the troll sighed acceptingly as Snufkin bowed his head politely and slunk calmly out the deck door.

The instant he had gone past the threshold, he practically scrambled away like a small creep given a fright.

Once he'd managed to usher his guests out of his house, Moomin went looking for him. It took him half an hour of politely urging them to leave before they took his suggestion. They shouldn't have been in his home in the first place, and once there they were impossible to chase out. Even as an adult, Moomin still just couldn't say no. He was a lenient host at heart. So lenient he'd allowed his other guest to be mistreated. He felt awful about how they'd spoken to poor Snufkin. There went his assurances that people were nice here. Now Snufkin would never be convinced.

He found him smoking another batch in his vegetable garden, sitting on one of the rocks with his boots in the tomatoes. His hat had been retrieved, and his hair had finally dried and puffed up at the ends like frayed rope. Moomin stared at him for a moment. He found himself doing a lot of that.

Earlier his only thought had been to hide him from view. He wasn't even sure what had driven it. Had it been fear of the Fillyjonks judging Snufkin? Judging Moomin for his choices in—what was he saying? It was hardly fair, anyhow, when Moomin himself went around bare. Though it wasn't as if they hadn't judged him too. Everyone else in the community wore clothes. They had only gotten used to him in the time he'd been here. Which they would have had no choice about, because he was hardly going to suddenly start dressing every day. That would have been very unbefit of a Moomintroll.

But Snufkin? Well. Snufkin wore them usually. He supposed that made it different. It didn't seem so odd to Moomin, who had gotten used to seeing him without his smock, over all those years of swimming together. He brought the picture back in his mind, trying to think of it differently, but the familiarity formed a net. His thoughts derailed to the scars on Snufkin's chest. Was he still using cream for them?

When he'd seen them earlier they were large, dark brown and swollen from exposure to sunlight. Moomin remembered the smell of antiseptic in the guest bedroom, the thick oversized nightgown snufkin wore that hung from his shoulders and let one see the purplish tint of whatever they'd put on him before surgery, spread all the way to his collarbone. He couldn't bathe for a week, and it left a stain even after he was finally able to rinse it off. Mamma had washed that gown, but Moomin had taken it off the clothes line and stuffed it in the corner of his bed frame, wedged between it and the mattress. And sometimes he would reach down and feel the fabric and remember how he had to help Snufkin sit up, and the pained hiss he would let out even as he continued to refuse the bottle of morphine. If Mamma had found out about the gown—which she likely had—she hadn't commented on it.

Moomin hadn't taken it with him when he'd moved. Fortunate, as he didn't know how he would have explained it now.

He shook his head, chasing the thought away, and approached Snufkin carefully, letting him hear he was coming. Snufkin shifted his weight, taking away the paw he was resting on and clearing a space in silent invitation. Moomin’s fur brushed inversely against the other’s side as he took the offered seat. His bottom was half hanging off of the rock.

“Sorry. About them." He didn't think he needed to specify who. "They're… interesting characters.”

“They're like that, Filifjonkar,” Snufkin spoke simply. “Although I wouldn't use the word ‘interesting.’”

Moomin laughed at that. A smile curled on Snufkin’s own face, and he leaned back, crossing his ankles comfortably. “I will admit, I've met better. Mrs Fillyjonk wasn’t so bad, after her accident,” he added, and Moomin stopped then, looking at him with an expression of bafflement. Snufkin stared back at him as if he hadn’t said anything odd. “What?”

“I’m just surprised to hear you say that. I didn’t think you liked her.”

“‘Like’ is a bit much. I understood her better, that’s all. And she made a good sea pudding.”

“Oh, of course,” Moomin chuckled to himself. Snufkin had a few weaknesses, and his favourite food was one of them. Still, he doubted whatever Mrs Fillyjonk had made could compare to Mamma's, and surely Snufkin had to agree. He ought to ask her for the recipe. He'd tried making it only once before, and it had gone terribly wrong. But perhaps now…

They sat in silence for a moment, Snufkin puffing on his pipe and Moomin gently brushing his foot on the underside of a larger leaf, wondering what else Snufkin would like to eat.

“Have her kids come back yet?” Snufkin asked, all of a sudden.

“Whose?”

“The Fillyjonk.”

“No. They’re still in boarding school, is what we last heard.” At least, three years ago.

Snufkin exhaled a long stream of smoke. “Long time, that.”

“Yes. I suspect they just aren’t too keen on visiting.” It was odd, discussing these things. He felt so distanced from them, like they belonged further into the past than they actually did.

“Can’t blame them, with a controlling mother like that.” Yes, Moomin certainly felt wrong about it. Snufkin was right, of course, but Moomin still felt guilty talking about speaking ill of his old neighbours behind their backs. He didn’t think he had permission to do so anymore. He was an adult now, he had to act civil, but he only felt lost. And what did he know of parenthood? Snufkin had more experience in that area.

“Well, enough about Mrs Fillyjonk. What about you?”

“What about me?” Snufkin asked, and Moomin found him very stubborn.

“Have you gone to see the woodies? You haven’t come straight to me after not seeing them in years, I hope.”

Snufkin kept puffing away, deliberately avoiding his gaze.

“Snufkin… You haven’t! Please tell me that isn’t what you did.”

“Well, they’re further North, you know. It wouldn’t make sense to go all the way there.”

“It’s almost winter!” Moomin exclaimed, disbelieving.

“Precisely. Not enough time for backtracking.”

Oh, Moomin was getting rather upset with him. “By my tail! Four years is not so much to me now,” he lied, “but it must be a terribly long time for them! That’s nearly a quarter of their lives!”

“I’ll see them, Moomintroll. Don’t you worry.”

“You will see them _now_ ,” Moomin insisted, for he felt hurt on the woodies’ behalf.

Snufkin shot him an innocent look. “Surely you don’t want me to leave already?”

Moomin knew instant what he was up to. He felt sweat bead up under the fur at his nape. He was trying to get out of a scolding, the fiend! But he was right, Moomin wouldn’t want to see him gone so soon. Still, he might have caught him but that didn’t mean he’d won. This wasn’t enough to make Moomin back down. He would get Snufkin to stay _and_ see the woodies.

“You know...” he started, in that way that one suggested things you weren’t allowed to argue with, “I have to make a trip to the post office today. Why don’t you send them a letter? They’re still in the theater, aren’t they?”

Snufkin’s face fell at the unexpected response, and he eyed him from under his hat like a cornered cat. “I’d assume.”

There, Moomin had him now. He couldn’t help his sudden excitement. He was starting to think the idea quite brilliant, and he knew just what to do with it too.

“We could invite them to put on a play! Think of it, you’ll get to see them and they’ll keep the locals distracted enough that they might even forget all about… this!” He waved broadly.

That seemed to be convincing enough for Snufkin, who held his pipe pensively for a moment, then eventually declared, “that certainly doesn’t sound too bad.”

Moomin whooped, sliding off the rock and bouncing to his feet. Snufkin smiled over at him, and Moomin didn’t even have the mind to be embarrassed over his reaction.

“Come inside and we can write it together, what do you say? You haven't seen the study yet.”

Indeed, Snufkin had not seen it before but further across the hall, by the stairs, was another space with a secondary sitting room on one side and a study on the other.

The study area was cramped, all high bookshelves—filled with more trinkets than books—surrounding a mahogany desk. It looked rarely used.

On the other end was a couch and modest coffee table. The couch was leather, unlike the fabric one in the other sitting room, and showed considerable age, likely secondhand. It was worn and saggy, with an equally old looking blanket and knit pillows thrown over it.

Between the two spaces, against one of the bare, unpainted board walls, stood an upright piano that caught Snufkin's attention, the top of it cluttered with knick-knacks—shells, candles embedded with dried flowers…

Overall, the colours of the room were more dull and earthy than the rest of what he'd seen of the house. It felt like a private spot to retreat to. Snufkin might have liked it, if it wasn't so terribly dark and stuffy, in its little nook of the home, far from any exits and with much smaller windows. At least these ones looked like they could open, he thought.

And then Snufkin actually stepped into the space.

"Well!" He exclaimed as he shifted from foot to foot, testing his weight. "The floor is crooked!"

"It's not my fault, the ground is at an incline here! Why are you smiling?"

"No reason."

"You like it," Moomin accused. Snufkin only smiled wider. "I knew you'd like it!"

"Did you now?" Snufkin looked up at him. "Were you thinking of me?"

Moomin flushed, and didn't answer.

"It just reminds me of your first house," Snufkin continued. "It's got character."

"But it's better, isn't it?" Moomin asked worriedly.

"Oh yes, much better. But it's always nice to have imperfections. That's what makes it fun."

Moomin's ears wiggled happily. "It's very fun. Look!" He rushed past Snufkin to the desk and took the wheeled chair off the little rug it stood on and let go of it on the hardwood floor. It rolled down into a corner. Moomin looked back at him expectantly and Snufkin chuckled.

"That certainly is fun."

Moomin pulled the chair back, a paw resting on the backrest to hold it in place as he bowed and gestured towards it in invitation.

"Would you like to sit in it?"

"I don't know how much it would roll with the added weight, but very well."

Snufkin took a seat, but just as predicted, when Moomin let go nothing happened. Moomin pouted unhappily. "Aw…"

"Didn't I tell you?" Snufkin answered, lifting a knee up and putting his heel on the edge of the seat.

"I thought since you were lighter than me it might work."

"Well, I—" Snufkin started, but was interrupted as Moomin took advantage of his new sitting position to push the chair into a spin. Snufkin's claws dug into the sides of the cushion and his other leg curled up to avoid injury as the added momentum sent the chair finally rolling across the floor. Moomin stopped him just as abruptly before he could hit any furniture, and laughed, big and joyful. Snufkin could only stare back for a beat, dazed, before he too broke into laughter.

"A very well oiled chair," Snufkin commented.

"Of course. I made it," Moomin responded pridefully, and offered his paw to Snufkin. Snufkin took it gratefully, pulling himself up and trying to keep steady with the added challenge of an angled floor. He shifted his weight forward, leaning into Moomin's chest for support. The chair rolled away but neither paid it any mind.

Moomin's free arm wrapped around him and Snufkin's feet nearly gave out from underneath him, causing them to tilt. Moomin moved them back in the opposite direction, and just like that they found themselves swaying from side to side in each other's arms.

Snufkin squeezed Moomin's paw, and the troll squeezed back and extended their arms as if in a waltz. Snufkin pushed his face into his fur so the other wouldn't see how red it had gotten. Now steady on his own two feet, he stepped one back and Moomin followed suit, the two of them falling into a proper dance.

Moomin let go of his waist long enough to spin him around and Snufkin couldn't help but laugh as he fell back into his chest. 

"I missed you," Moomin spoke on impulse.

Snufkin's eyes shifted lazily to him. There was a beat, before they crinkled happily.

"I was waiting for you to say that. I very nearly thought it might not come."

"I didn't want to scare you."

"My, how you've grown. I haven't seen that old Moomintroll in so very long."

Moomin grimaced. "I was obnoxious, wasn't I?"

"No," he said gently, but with conviction. "I wouldn't say that. Not at all. You were young, and we'd only known each other for so long."

"Oh. Is _this_ bad then?"

"No, no! I much rather you not cry over me. I'm touched by how well you learned. Though, I do sometimes need to hear it. One can miss a little bit of the past."

Moomin's ears wiggled and he squeezed Snufkin to him. "I understand that."

"And for that matter, I have missed you too. Very much so."

Moomin looked down at him as if he'd said something surprising. Then it morphed into something different, something familiar and unplaceable. It swam behind his clear blue eyes and Snufkin was drawn forward, like a stranded fish to an ocean just within sight but impossible to reach.

And then Moomin was letting go of him very suddenly and moving back, sputtering something about having left the paper upstairs and moving quickly to the stairway. Snufkin was left alone and feeling very odd, as though he'd missed something significant but couldn't tell what.

He looked around the room, unsure of what to do before his eyes settled on the nearest bookshelf, and he decided to occupy himself with seeing what few books Moomin had in his collection. He was honestly surprised he even had that many, all the way out here and with so little time to acquire them. He must have been reading a lot.

There were various titles Snufkin did not recognise, as well as a few familiar ones. It was mainly fiction, until he crouched down to the lower shelves where he found all sorts of manuals—references Moomintroll had used for his craft, it seemed.

One book in particular stood out from the rest and Snufkin pulled it out. Titled _The Guide to Survival Fishing_ , it had a flat and blue soft cover depicting a jumping salmon, and stark white pages bound with clear glue. It looked as though it had never been opened. It even smelled new. He would have put it back, but he was curious.

He ran a thumb over the edge, and stopped at a random page, opening it to a section about making fishing hooks out of rose thorns and flax rope. Intriguing. Snufkin had much experience with crafting hooks, but he tended to opt for a borrowed spool of wire, or a cut from a can. If he did not have that, he would simply built a trap out of stones, or sharpen a stick into a spear. He had never looked towards thorns. He had to wonder how well such a thing could work. There was something quite pretty but fragile about it.

Moomin came down the stairs then.

"What's this?" Snufkin asked him without looking, still squatting in front of the bookshelf.

Moomin walked over, and Snufkin angled the cover towards him. He stared at it as if he'd never seen the book in his life, before the gears in his head finally clicked.

"Oh! I thought you might like that!"

"You got this for me?"

"Well," Moomin stumbled, knowing well that Snufkin didn't like purchased gifts, especially new ones. "No, I got it for myself too. You probably already know everything in it, anyhow."

Snufkin hesitated to contradict him. He wasn't sure why. He knew he'd never made a hook like that, but he felt wrong to admit it.

"A small community for a bookstore," he said instead.

"Oh, there is one, but I didn't buy it here. I bought it right when I left. From that little everything shop near the lonely mountains, you know? The one we'd gone to when the comet came."

And carried it all the way? Now that snufkin looked closer, the corners were a bit damaged, likely from travel. He wasn't sure what to make of that. He would have thought Moomintroll would have read it, at least, if he took it with him out in the world. Something about the whole situation felt off to him. Moomin should have been eager to learn such things; should have been eager to prove his survival skills to Snufkin. Was it all because Snufkin hadn't been around? Did Moomin no longer care for such things without him there to see them?

Snufkin glanced at all the comfort around him—comfort built from nothing, with bare hands. But it was different, wasn't it? A different kind of survival from what Snufkin knew.

It was all Moomin, without any of _him_.

"So, shall we?" Moomin asked as he shook the packet of paper.

"Of course." Snufkin set the book down on top of the shelf, and followed him to the desk, where Moomin had sat and gotten a pen.

"How should we write this, do you think?"

"The same as you always do. Short and to the point."

Moomin frowned at that. "That's only how I write to you. They're not you, they're actors. They'd expect a little more, I think."

"You're not writing a play," Snufkin reminded with a laugh. "And you're forgetting that they're used to letters from me."

"Oh… that's true." Moomin pondered over the empty page. "Maybe dictate for me?"

Snufkin leaned over his back, paw and chin on Moomin's shoulder, and suggested what to write. Moomin argued his wording here and there, and added his own to it. It took two rewriting to get it looking clean.

Snufkin refused to come with him, needing some time by himself, saying he'd like to try some fishing, so Moomin left for the post office alone, two envelopes in hand.

Moomin had just come off the path to his house when a voice called out to him.

"Moomintroll! Hello!"

"Oh!" Moomin jumped and spun around.

It was the Limner, a round, and stark white creature with short pointed ears, much akin to a Moomintroll—some distant relation, perhaps—but shorter and with her mouth located on the front of her snout not unlike a hemul. And like a hemul, she wore clothes, a green collared dress and a peach shawl over her head. She held a bundle in the crook of her arm: a small child.

"Limner! Hello!"

She looked over at his paw and asked, "are you off to the post office?" Moomin nodded. "May I walk with you?"

"Of course!"

Moomin liked her very much. She was very kind, but also very observant, and she spoke her honest thoughts about matters. Out of all his neighbours, she was his favourite.

"How's your wife?" he asked.

"She's very well. Gotten over her cold, but she won't be seeing the little one for a few more days, for good measure."

Moomin took a peek at the child. It was all fluffy like a cotton ball, and sound asleep, its small pink tongue sticking out. "And how is this little one?"

"No longer crying, so there's that," she laughed. "I never get to focus in my work these days, haven't finished a portrait since she's been born. And here I am taking this opportunity for a walk instead."

"Well! Nothing wrong with that! You can't stay cooped up inside all the time."

"What about you?" she asked. "I suppose congratulations are in order."

Moomin groaned loudly. Of course…

"It's not like that."

"Oh?"

"He's just a friend."

"Apologies, I've only heard through the grapevine. It's all everyone's talking about, you know."

"I know... Believe me, I know..." Moomin sighed dramatically. He was going to have a word with the Mymble. "The sisters came to see me first thing this morning."

The Limner pressed her paw to her mouth, sympathetic. No one enjoyed an early visit from characters as difficult as them.

"I imagine they've given you both a rough time."

"They certainly chased Snufkin off. Would have done so right away if I hadn't been keeping him there. Terrible, you wouldn't believe the things they said about him. I nearly kicked them out of my house right then."

"Well why didn't you?"

That stopped Moomin in his tracks. "Why? I can't do that!"

"Yes you can, it's your house, isn't it? And your friend."

"It wouldn't make me a good host."

"Golly, Moomintroll! You'd let them into your house and insult your friend? Isn't it worse to make him go through that?"

She was right, of course. He knew that. And he didn't feel very good about it. Indeed, he was still much the same when it came to guests. He just fumed in irritation and did nothing else, to the point that he'd leave himself before forcing people out. The move had apparently only made that worse, having to get familiar with new faces and stay cordial with them. But it hadn't been so terrible an issue until they actually had reason to welcome themselves into his home.

"I know you care, you wouldn't have been so offended on his behalf otherwise. But it sounds like you're handling it all wrong."

"I am. I've been _only_ doing it wrong, Limner. I nearly knocked myself out last night."

She gasped. "What happened?"

"It's embarrassing. I don't really want to say. Snufkin had to save me."

"He sounds very reliable."

"He is. What am I doing? I haven't acted so careless about him since we were kids," Moomin lamented.

The Limner hummed understandingly. "Snufkin, is it? Have you been friends for long?"

Moomin perked up instant at the question. _Had they been friends long_? "Certainly! We've known each other since we were kids. He's been my best friend for years I'll have you know."

The Limner smiled at that. He supposed it was sweet. He himself found it sweet, when he thought about it.

"Well, when did you last see him?" she asked.

"Um… four years ago."

"Well there you have it. It makes sense, you're scared."

Scared? Was that it? Had he forgotten how to be considerate of Snufkin because he was scared? Moomin wasn't sure.

"I don't mean to pry, but I'm curious…" the Limner started before he could dwell on it further, "I've never met a mumrik before. What's he like?"

Moomin found himself at a loss. Where did one even start, when there was so much to say about Snufkin.

"He's… wonderful," he eventually settled for. "He's a vagabond, so he's been all over the world and he knows so much. But he always came back to see me," he told her fondly, as he let his mind wander.

"We'd spend every summer together, going on adventures. He gets so thrilled about a good adventure, his eyes just light up! You can't hold him back once he's sniffed a trail. He'd wake me up sometimes when he found something interesting and we'd go together. Those were my favourite times. Sometimes we wouldn't have to talk at all, wouldn't need to. He's the kind of person you can just sit in silence with and it doesn't feel awkward." Yes, Moomin liked quite every moment he got to spend with Snufkin. It was always special, no matter what they did.

"Oh but talking to him is lovely too," he added. "He can be so wise and then so silly also. He always knows just what to say when you have a problem but he'll also ask the daftest things, sometimes! Oh and he's a wonderful musician, you should hear him play! He always had a new spring tune. And he'd play for us all the time, when we'd just lay about on a nice day. There's no music that compares."

"You sound fond of him," the Limner finally said.

Moomin flushed, and the letters in his paw crinkled slightly. "No…" he lied.

"Really?" She stared at him pointedly.

Oh he couldn't do this.

"Okay maybe. Yes. Very. But as I said! We're just friends. That's all."

"Well, why?"

Moomin blinked down at her. "Why what?"

"Why not more?"

"I…" He just couldn't! "Snufkin doesn't feel that way about me."

"You know? From what you just told me, he sounds sweet on you as well."

Once again, Moomin was at a loss. An old memory surfaced, of Little My asking him about his feelings for Snufkin. He thought then there might have been something, maybe. But that had been then, and over time he'd come to doubt it. Nothing had happened after so long, after all. There was no way to say if he'd been wrong or right.

Had they ever… actually spoken about it? About them?

No, Moomin didn't know.

But then there was another problem...

"Even if he did, I couldn't trap him like that. Things like this… Oh they're not like us, mumrikar, you can't keep them."

"I don't know, it sounds like you two have managed just fine thus far."

Moomin stared forward. Had they? He'd hadn't been very considerate of Snufkin since he'd come back, in his opinion. "I… haven't seen him in years," he confessed. "He had to leave. I don't know if there's a thus far anymore. I don't know what to expect from here on out. I can't scare him off. If he doesn't come back… If he doesn't come back…" Moomin swallowed the lump in his throat. Perhaps she was right. He was scared.

If he didn't come back, then what? All Moomin felt at the possibility was dread. It drowned out all other thoughts and emotions. Even though he'd been living without him for a while now, he still couldn't picture what his life would be like. To know that Snufkin would be back, that was one thing. The reminder pushed him forward like a motor, after so long it had become almost automatic, he didn't have to think about the fact anymore. He just lived in the knowledge that the next thing he knew Snufkin might be there again… But if that motor stopped, if he were to know for certainty that Snufkin would never return? Moomin wondered if he'd even be able to find it in him to move anymore.

"I… don't know what I'd do with myself…"

The Limner stared at him for a beat, then looked away politely. "I'm sorry for asking. I hope it doesn't end up that way."

"I hope so too."

The post office was a small extension to the town hall, narrow and squeezed into the building's side. It had its own exterior door, as well as one inside which hardly anyone ever used as it would bump against the desk and not open further, and so one would have to squeeze between the door and the boxes.

Moomin had expected it to be the usual affair, but when they got there they found a group gathered outside, murmuring between them as they huddled around something. Moomin and the Limner stilled, the latter tensing next to him. In his periphery he caught her worried face.

"I think I'll be going… This looks bad."

Moomin glanced over at her, slightly confused but unquestioning. "Oh, alright. It was nice seeing you."

"Yes, you too," she replied, and then turned tail as quickly as her little legs could carry her. Now that was really strange to Moomin, and in turn only made him more curious. What ever was all the commotion about?

He stepped forward towards the group and called out, "what's going on?"

All eyes turned to him. Some blankly disappointed, some merely curious, and some downright angry. The group parted and it suddenly dawned on Moomin where they all stood. There, where once had been the town sign, was nothing but a pile of splinters.

"Oh no…" he muttered, paw slapping over his eyes and pushing his snout down into his chest in shame. He didn't need to see to feel the fumes coming out of the hemulen's ears.

"I hear you're marrying a mumrik," came the clipped voice. Moomin squeezed his eyes tighter.

"I'm not marrying him," he tried to argue, but his own voice came out strained. "He's just—"

"I have reason to suspect your mumrik might have done this."

Moomin's paw slipped off his face and fell into a placating gesture. He really didn't have time for this. Snufkin might have done or might not have.

…

Oh, who was he kidding. Snufkin had absolutely done it. Which meant this was his responsibility now.

"Look, I'll supply a new sign," he bargained, hoping it would be enough to convince everyone not to run Snufkin out of the area. I'll cut down a good tree and bring it overmorrow to have it painted. Good?"

No one answered, either hesitant to accept or taking in his admittance. The hemulen still glared at him. Moomin decided for them. "Great!" He answered, clapping his paws and not leaving place for any more discussion as he rushed by.

The Hemulen called after him, "you had better keep him on a tighter leash!"

Moomin's fur raised angrily at that. He slipped through the post office threshold, then felt a bit bold and leaned back to give them a little wave and a curt and slightly angry "bye now!" before slamming the red door closed behind him.

The post lady wasn't at the counter. Moomin held his grip on the door knob and leaned back against the multitude of notices stapled directly into the door. He tried to quell his anger. _On a leash, could you imagine! What a thing to say!_ He didn't own Snufkin; he didn't get to tell him what to do!

He exhaled heavily. Oh this was not starting out good. Maybe if he stayed long enough they'd all be gone by the time he came out.

Moomin pushed himself off the door and faced the ads on the proper billboard beside him. He feigned deep interest, although there was no one to see and nothing new aside from an ad for a new skiing trail somewhere up north. Moomin stared blankly at the little map below the words.

What a silly thing, to get angry at Snufkin over something like this. What a silly thing to dislike Snufkin at all. He couldn't possibly imagine it. He was kind and polite, wise, always willing to lend a hand, and always told good stories. It wasn't his fault he couldn't stand signs. Everyone loved Snufkin, back in Moominvalley.

Maybe he'd just gotten used to living around Snufkin's boundaries. Maybe a little bit of Snufkin had embedded itself in him too, and he couldn't see the big deal. Maybe he wasn't cut out for this locale, if they were going to throw a fuss over signs.

And Snufkin certainly wouldn't be cut out for this place either. Why had he chosen to settle here? If he'd gone somewhere deep in the woods Snufkin would have—

"Moomintroll! Good afternoon!"

Moomin whirled back, slightly startled, to find the post office worker smiling kindly at him. He liked her, she was a young fuzzy with a big smile and curly ears that wiggled happily as she spoke. She always wore a lilac blouse buttoned high up her neck, with a mauve cardigan on colder days.

"I haven't received anything for you, so I'm guessing you're sending?"

"Yes." Moomin made his way over and deposited the letters on the unpleasant feeling desk. It had a surface painted to look like wood, but it was unconvincing, and one could see it start to curl and peel on the edges. Beneath lay actual wood pulp. Moomin didn't get it. Why not just use real wood?

"I'll need to buy stamps," he added.

With luck, the group outside would have scattered by the time he was finished.


	3. All About Combing And Things That Are Too Small

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Moomin and Snufkin spend some time together, and Snufkin tells miserable tales.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNING for mentions of death in this one. If you would like to skip it, stop reading when the kid calls the other stupid, and jump ahead to "he made his way to Moomin's door"
> 
> \--
> 
> Hoo boy I know I skipped around a lot in this chapter but I needed to establish time passing and get these scenes out of the way for the woodies next chapter. Anyway, welcome to the fic where Snufkin sits, eats, gets stared at by Moomintroll, and gets harrassed by strangers. Don't turn this into a drinking game.
> 
> Also shoutout to boorishbint for helping me with the Mymble's dialogue.  
> I've based the Mymble in behavior (tho not in character) off of an old Irish man I know who has done these things to me (I took the plush trout. Rip to Snufkin but I'm different) and also single-handedly populated a community with his kids (I am not joking. King). But as I didn't know how to accurately write Irish people, I was originally hesitant on making him so. Then I thought up the flag scene and I decided, what the hell, I can just ask for help. So thank you again, my friend, you're a lifesaver!
> 
> Also also, there is nothing funnier to me than that one panel from the comics where Snufkin is puffing on this huge cigar the size of his head. He is small and he smokes and drinks and that's tremendously amusing to me. [insert: how are you that small.png]

Snufkin sat cross-legged on the edge of the boat, hands clasped on his knee, as he watched Moomin struggle with the engine.

"And you're sure the tank is full?"

"Yes, I'm sure!" Moomin huffed as he pulled the cord again, to no avail.

"Well, we have oars. We could always row," Snufkin joked. Moomin only grumbled and kept fussing with the engine. One simply couldn't lighten the mood when the troll worked himself up into a temper. Snufkin had come to learn that over many failed attempts. Still, he tried, if only in hopes that it wouldn't encourage the bad mood.

He didn't understand it, really. So much fuss over nothing. Machines, they always broke down. What was the point, then, in using them at all?

"This would be simpler if the Snork hadn't gone experimental with his design. I swear it usually starts fine!"

"You don't suppose the solution would also be experimental then?"

Moomin stopped fussing for a moment, and threw him a cross look over his shoulder. "What are you talking about now?"

"I don't know. Perhaps ask it kindly."

"Ask it!" Moomin echoed incredulously. He let go of the cord fully, allowing it to reel back in, so that he could throw his arms in the air in a big show. "Always nonsense with you! You're no help! Ask it…"

Snufkin watched him with amusement as he grumbled and spun aimlessly looking for a better solution. Eventually, the situation proving hopeless, he sat his heavy behind down on the bench, crossed his arms and sulked.

"If you want to try your silly ideas, then be my guest. But it won't work."

"Now why wouldn't it?" Snufkin laughed. Truthfully, he didn't expect anything either, but he was willing to indulge the possibility. How did engines work, in any case? It was all magic to him. Who was to say there weren't little critters toiling away in there? As long as the image was fun, Snufkin was content to consider it the truth.

He climbed onto the bench next to Moomin, and set his paw upon the smooth grey casing. Moomin huffed next to him, impatient and skeptical. It must have been a very frustrating situation for him indeed, but Snufkin paid him no mind.

"Now, now, won't you be so kind? We shall very much like to sail while it is nice. I'm sure you'd like different waters as well. You may sleep when we return, we shan't disturb you then."

"Rubbish," Moomin commented.

"How did you do this again?"

Moomin grunted loudly and irritably, and twisted in his seat. Snufkin leaned out of the way as the troll hooked his forefinger through the loop and pulled the cord with such force that the whole thing might have come apart, had it been built by different hands.

The engine spurred to life instantly.

The two passengers sat in joint astonishment for a beat, until Moomin cheered, "AHA! Untie the boat!" and jumped to his feet, hurrying at the controls.

"Aye-aye, captain!" Snufkin called in his best sailor voice, complete with salute, and hopped out onto the jetty to uncoil the ropes. He held them tightly in his paw, pulling the boat close, then jumped back onto the gunwale and down inside the hull, his boots landing with a loud, hollow thud.

The boat now freed, Moomin put it in reverse and slowly backed away from the jetty as Snufkin flipped the fenders inside. How exciting! They were finally off, and while the tide was still up! Snufkin leaned over the edge to watch the ripples form. With how slow they were moving, he could still see slightly through the turbid water, enough catch the shape of an algae here or there, closer to the surface. He wondered what might have lived below, calling the shade of Moomin's jetty home.

There were perfectly good seats, but Snufkin had opted to sit on the gunwale instead. Moomin was relieved to see that he had the good sense to at least clasp the loose rope rail. Though he knew Snufkin was a good swimmer, he was not nearly as buoyant as Moomin, and so the troll couldn't help but worry that he would sink like a stone, should he fall overboard.

He had asked him earlier, when he'd seen the tide come in, if Snufkin wanted to take the boat out. He'd been fishing for some time on the ledge, and Moomin had initially been hesitant to approach, unsure if he'd be suffocating, even though he hadn't seen Snufkin much at all, in the past couple of days.

They had fallen into a pattern, you see, where they would both keep busy for most of the day, until they would run into each other and spend a bit of time together, and then again Snufkin would wander off and Moomin would slip downstairs to his workshop. Sometimes the mumriken would come in for tea and sit as he always did on the couch, absentminded and content. He had started getting used to the main sitting room, it seemed. No longer did he stiffen so. But he would disappear very quickly after, and Moomin would only see him again for lunch and supper on the deck. When he'd ask what he'd been up to, Snufkin would grunt in that dismissive but unperturbed way of his, and fix a stem on his hat.

So Moomin had just been leaving him be. It may have been a large terrain but there was not all that much space to disappear before one hit another house. He was willing to guess that Snufkin had been turning back at those points, and wandering around in circles. He knew that it was only temporary, that eventually Snufkin would grow bored and keep walking, right through the neighbours' properties. He only hoped he hadn't gotten to that point yet. Moomin knew most people were kind here, but well… the situation still felt tense, and the thought of further confrontation worried him. He would need to fix things first.

He hadn't had any more guests, thankfully. But he also hadn't left home since he'd started working. Not even to go down to the fisherman's (there was no need, with Snufkin about). But he knew just because he wasn't witnessing it didn't mean people had necessarily stopped talking. He was maybe a little worried to find out what ideas might have arisen while he was unaware.

He hadn't told Snufkin about the sign, of course. What would he even have said? "I _know it's in your nature, that it's your lifestyle, and your right, and I understand it and I support you. But people are mad at you now, which means people are mad at_ me _. And I don't like that?_ " It seemed quite pointless to confront him. Though Snufkin must have reasoned, when he'd done it, that it would stir up trouble. Still, Moomin couldn't blame him. He could only defend him, and try to patch things up.

He knew really, that he ought not to be making the sign at all. They didn't need a sign, and it was unfair that Moomin be charged with the task of a replacement when Snufkin wasn't in the wrong, anyway. Not really.

Half of him wanted to leave it unfinished, and just make people wait for it until they either felt silly or forgot about it. But once again, he just couldn't find it in himself to say no. The thought of cultivating a negative relationship with his community weighed heavily on him. He could only try to make it so that it didn't upset either party. And for that reason, he hadn't planned on Snufkin knowing at all.

But well, it isn't easy to cut down a tree in secret.

Snufkin had caught him just as he'd started on the task. He had looked on, silent and inexplicably red faced (at first, Moomin had thought him sunburned, but he reasoned he must have been winded from his exploring), as Moomin had taken down an oak on the edge of the wooded area. He'd startled as it had come crashing down, as if broken out of a trance, and then had fixed Moomin with an even odder look and a pull of his hat when the troll had carried the heavy thing onto even ground so that he might segment it.

Once he'd put the axe down, and moved to inspect his work and take his pick, Snufkin had finally drawn close and promptly settled onto the nicest log. He had smiled as Moomin had tried to shoo him away, and had instead asked him, voice full of amusement, what he was making.

Moomin had told him it was a surprise. And Snufkin had looked even more interested then, and had tried to get it out of him as if it were a game. When he'd realised that Moomin hadn't been playing and truly wasn't going to say, he'd dropped it simply and stood up. But that hadn't kept him from throwing a curious glance Moomin's way as the troll had taken the log down to his workshop, and then for the rest of the day every time they'd seen each other.

Moomin had been very preoccupied since then. Though that didn't mean he hadn't felt a bit odd about the time apart. It was easier, yes, he was used to not having Snufkin around now. But it was also harder, for he missed him still.

Thankfully, he'd finally finished his carving the previous evening, and had hastily gone off to deliver it to the Limner's for painting. He had made bread dough to celebrate upon his return, and in the morning, after putting the risen loaves in the oven, he had picked up the mail, finding a letter from Moominmamma, and another envelope with the stamp of the theater. Feeling rather anxious, he had set aside Mamma's letter aside for later, and torn into the other one.

The contents, as he had hoped, were very optimistic about the proposal, albeit in Emma's curt manner. It promised the troupe's arrival within the coming days, and Moomin felt himself already stressed at the mere thought. He had gone on to take his mind off of it and busy himself with chores until it had been time to take the bread out, at which point he had finally dared to go out and tell Snufkin the news.

The mumriken in question had appeared thrumming with restless energy as Moomin had approached. It was rather clear he hadn't caught anything. "You have some rather voracious seagulls," Snufkin had said without turning.

"Oh, yes," Moomin had agreed as he'd stopped beside him, and Snufkin had reeled his line in, knowing he would have no further luck.

"Have you eaten?" Moomin had asked him, unable to hold back the concern.

"I had soup from yesterday," Snufkin had told him.

"You made soup? And you didn't tell me?" Moomin had lamented.

"Soup for one, I'm afraid."

"I love your soups."

"A shame for you then."

Moomin had stood there and stared down at him in quiet for a moment, until Snufkin had looked over questioningly. "I shan't make you soup, if that is what you expect."

"No, uh..." Moomin had hunched down and waved the letter under his nose then, gathering his attention to it. "I have news for you. We can expect your woodies soon."

Snufkin had gingerly taken the paper from his paws and swept over the contents, before making a small noise of assent and passing it back. His face had hardly moved, and Moomin had known right away that Snufkin was feeling quite as nervous as him.

He had glanced out at the water. The time was up, and would be for some time.

"Say, how would you like to go sailing today?" he had offered. "There's some small islands about that I think you'd like."

"Well!" Snufkin had agreed. "That sounds splendid."

"They're not owned. Or at least if they are I don't know about it and don't care," Moomin had added, as if the other needed further convincing, and Snufkin had smiled up at him, amused and pleased.

So Moomin had quickly packed a picnic basket and led Snufkin down the narrow, overgrown stairs to the jetty, and off they had gone.

Moomin couldn't sail out any time he wanted. The unfortunate thing about being at the end of a bay was that there were far too many rocks. One couldn't see them then, hidden under the surface as they were—which only made them more dangerous—but when the tide pulled back, the passage proved considerably narrow. He had to take care in navigating.

Snufkin said nothing, and Moomin thought he was only enjoying the view, until they were nearly through, and Snufkin called out, to be heard over the thrum, "why is there a ladder on your roof?"

Moomin faltered for moment, until the words sank in and he remembered.

There was indeed a ladder up on his roof, from when he'd installed the skylight. It faced the water, and could not be seen except from the other shore, or in the middle of the bay as they were now. How easy it was to forget, when one saw it so rarely.

"Oh, um. It got stuck."

"Did it not know how to come down?" Snufkin asked, still on his hogwash, apparently. Moomin didn't even entertain that.

"I glued it to the shingles."

There was a pause, and then, "oh dear… Good old Moomintroll," Snufkin laughed. It was almost drowned out by the engine, but Moomin still caught it.

"I didn't realise!" he defended himself. "I spilled glue on it and made the mistake of leaving it on there to store in the morning."

"Well, if you ever need to get up on your roof, you have a way now," Snufkin told him with amusement.

"I don't see why I would," Moomin answered, even as old memories resurged in his mind, of him and Snufkin stargazing up on the red shingles of Moominhouse. But he had two balconies now, and a secluded garden on a cliff that they could lie in, so where was the need? Something at the back of his mind argued insistently that there was, in fact, a need.

"Even if you never use it, I think it has a certain charm," Snufkin admitted then.

"You do?"

"Oh yes. From the front your house looked so much like Moominpappa's handiwork that I was afraid of what I might find," he explained, a mirthful tilt to his words. "But thankfully, I now know for certain that I've found the right troll."

"Snufkin!" Moomin chided, for he had caught on to the friendly jabbing. Snufkin laughed, not unkindly.

"It's a splendid house, Moomintroll. I really do think it." The words caused Moomin's cheeks to warm, and along with it, an inexplicable guilty feeling began to nag at him.

Moomin kept the engine slow, careful not to rock the other boats as they made their way through the bay (for it was very rude and Moomin prided himself in being respectful of the space). More and more houses revealed themselves, previously hidden behind the turn, as well as the large communal dock with the blue fishing house. Suddenly the place felt more populated. It always had been, only Moomin had picked a more secluded spot to settle in, so one hardly realised.

He wondered what Snufkin thought of that, but did not dare to look, and instead focused on the air on his face, and the call of birds around them.

Once the bay opened up, and with all the other jetties behind them, Moomin sped up between the last stretch of land, and into the wide expanse of sea. He finally chanced a glance at Snufkin, who was holding his hat down by the brim and grinning widely towards the horizon. His pupils were large in glee, and Moomin's chest fluttered with pride. If Snufkin liked someplace, then that made it worthy of admiration.

Clusters of barren rocky islands came into view, speckled in white. They reached out high into a peak, then dropped abruptly. When one got closer, one could see the white spots moving about and taking to the air. Not Hattifattners, thank the Booble.

"How very many birds!" Snufkin yelled.

"Yes!" Moomin called back. "If you come back in spring..." he paused briefly, letting the unsaid question fill the air, "we could go egg hunting!"

"I'd like that!" Snufkin sounded thrilled by his suggestion, and it suddenly had Moomin very excited—about the egg hunting, of course, but also, well… It was a promise, of sorts, uncertain as it was.

They hadn't done gone egg hunting in a long time, even when they were still in Moominvalley. Snorkmaiden had gotten chickens, and it had just been easier that way. And when she'd gone, she had left them with the Moomins, for she couldn't have them with her. "Not in an establishment _de luxe_!" she'd said. "Do take care of Margta and Petronella"—and whatever the rest of their names were, Moomin could not remember—"or I shall have you in that coop three feet below the pine shavings!"

Truthfully, all that had done was make Moomin too afraid of doing wrong to even care for them, and so he had left them all to Mamma, and sometimes Little My, who loved to feed them snakes. Moomin had just been content to have free eggs and no business to do with it.

But though the chickens had made his life simpler, it simply wasn't the same. He held fond memories of shuffling along the mountain side, following Snufkin's lead as they climbed, catching the same footholds the mumriken had tested, and watching his back in case he slipped. And he'd slipped. _They_ 'd slipped, so many times that Moomin could not believe they had never gotten badly injured, or worse. They had broken many eggs against the rocks, however, and sometimes come out of it entirely eggless, though safe and sound.

Had it been scary? Certainly. But it had also been also exhilarating. Moomin found the feeling of reaching for air quite terrifying, of course, but Snufkin had quick reflexes, and hadn't once failed to catch his arm. Moomin's system would flood with feelings indescribable every time.

He'd stopped experiencing that after a while, however. Moomin wanted to say he was good at rock climbing, but the reality was that he had proven much too clumsy and much too heavy—moreso as he'd grown—and it had resulted in one too many a scare. Moomin had even nearly knocked Snufkin down with him a few times. So they had agreed to stop alternating, and leave only Snufkin to get the eggs and pass them over. Moomin would wait further down below, where the ledge was even, while the other made the difficult climbs.

It was _safer_ that way, but by no means was it _safe_. Snufkin was not incapable of missteps either, but at least Moomin could catch him, light as the mumriken was, and not risk a fall. And when Moomin _would_ see Snufkin's paw slip, his heart would jump in his throat so suddenly, and he would forget to breathe. And Snufkin would slide down, sometimes as far down as Moomin was, falling into the space between his arms, back to his chest, and before Moomin could take in the closeness he would make sure one arm was holding onto the rock securely, and with the other he would grab Snufkin underneath the thigh and push him up to another foothold.

If his paw burned hot afterwards, well that was surely unrelated, and Moomin tried not to think too much of what it would all be like now. He had the present to focus on.

It was much different, out in the open sea, and with the wind to fight against. The waves bounced them, and Snufkin laughed so brightly that it rang through Moomin's core and encouraged him to take unneeded turns just to hear it.

Eventually, the mumriken abandoned the gunwale and scrambled to the little seat at the bow, much to Moomin's relief. He knelt onto it, pulling his hat down with both paws as the winds attempted to steal it from him. His hair flew in every which way, unrestrained, wild and fantastic to Moomin's eyes. The forces tugged at Snufkin relentlessly, yet he stood strong and steady, posture speaking of bliss, shoulders back, chest out, nose up. Moomin didn't have to see his face to know that he had his eyes closed. Snufkin looked like he looked like he belonged.

They made it to a relatively small island, with a grassy hill adorned by a single tree. Moomin slowed as he ventured along the shoreline for the spot where he usually moored his boat. He did his best not to knock the hull against the rocks as he got as close as possible, and instructed Snufkin to tie it.

Snufkin jumped out onto the rocks with the rope, and secured it around a good rock. Moomin cut off the engine, took Snufkin's offered paw and climbed out after him. Snufkin let go of him quickly once his feet were steady, and Moomin couldn't help but feel a little disappointed. Especially as the other hurried ahead, making big hops across the gaps in the stones, too quick for the troll to follow.

To make it worse, the foolish mumriken did a sudden cartwheel, which scared Moomin terribly, who thought for sure he would slip and tumble down into the water—or worse, hit his head.

Luckily, none of that happened. Snufkin stopped a ways away, up on the hill, either enthralled by the sight or waiting for him, Moomin couldn't tell. The sun lit his form brightly where he stood, and the blue horizon line at his hips seemed to shimmer only for him. _Ethereal_ , Moomin thought, _that's what he looks_. _Ethereal, and elusive._ Snufkin felt always so close, and yet just out of reach. Why oh why he always had to take a step further, Moomin didn't understand.

Snufkin turned back to him with a large grin, looking absolutely delighted, and delightful. Moomin worried if he stared too long he'd step wrong and fall into the icy sea himself.

There was a little beach on the other side of the turn, if one could call it that. Not reachable by boat, the water had weaved around the group of stones for as long as they had been there to push shells onto the shore. Moomin wondered how deep it was, but he'd never tried to dig. One found enough just combing the surface of it. There were so many wonders, with no sand to intrude—grey gingham snail shells and purple mussels, little pink or white clam shells, smooth and pearly, sea glass in all colours, all manner of smooth stones, or even the occasional chunk of quartz.

Moomin hadn't hesitated a second, once he'd followed Snufkin onto it. He had knelt right there, searching through it all for anything of interest. Snufkin had admired the water for a moment longer, watching trapped seaweed and foam, before joining him from the other side of the small stretch of beach, a distance still considerable to Moomin, who thought that would be that, until Snufkin seemingly decided he was unhappy with his spot, stood, and sat himself right next to his friend instead. His shoulder brushed Moomin's arm, and he felt the warmth of it even through his fur. Moomin buried his fingers in the sharp ground, and found that all the shells looked the same to him in that moment.

"Look," Snufkin broke the silence, voice softened in interest, and lifted his find, small and white between his fingers. Moomin leaned closer to see that it was a piece of broken china, the edges water worn but the blue motifs still visible underneath the varnish.

"How pretty," Moomin spoke in awe. "Wonder how that ended up in the sea."

"Someone must have dropped it," Snufkin reasoned simply.

"Or they had a row." 

His friend looked at him curiously. "A row?"

"Yes! You know, like in the books! In a fit of passionate rage they throw the plate out at sea to smash against the rocks. And then they feel very sad to have destroyed it."

Snufkin stared blankly at him for a beat, then hummed unenthusiastically. _Oh him_ , Moomin thought, _he doesn't understand a good romance_.

Snufkin lowered his paw to set the shard down when Moomin rushed to stop him. "Don't put that back, it'd be a pity!"

"You want to keep it then?" Snufkin asked and slipped it into Moomin's awaiting palm. Moomin dropped it into a corner of his basket and hoped that he wouldn't lose it.

"Well," Snufkin then declared as he stood and brushed his knees. Moomin caught a glimpse of shell indents left on his shin where his pant leg had ridden up. "I shall like to see the rest of this island."

Moomin led him across the landscape of stones and greenery. Mosses, wild grasses, and the odd patch of nettle that he had to warn Snufkin about (Moomin had walked into them before and deeply regretted it). It was a relatively small island, but that didn't mean it was unexciting. His friend seemed very happy to sniff around the wild foliage, disturbing crab shells and sticks to see what was underneath. Moomin followed at a short distance, watching him go about.

He thought he'd seen all of it before, but then Snufkin would point out a clump of moss to him, coloured with a few wild blueberries, which he'd extend towards him, and which Moomin would take with full trust, and find sweetly sour. Or it would be a particularly interesting branch, an interesting fault in a stone, a very small tide pool, murky and distrustful to Moomintroll.

He felt as though he was vacationing in his own home. Everything he'd grown familiar with in the last two years suddenly felt new and unexplored with Snufkin by his side.

Eventually growing tired, Snufkin took a perch on an outcrop to watch the crashing waves. Moomin silently sat next to him. He placed the basket down and reached for the towel over top of it, which he draped across his lap. Next came the loaf of bread that had been under it, beside two bottles of lemonade squeezed into the corners.

The bread crust was hard and crackly. Moomin struggled to tear into it for a moment, until finally the loaf gave under his claws and split unevenly, revealing soft crumb peppered with fennel seeds. Moomin dug out some of it and offered it to Snufkin, who finally looked to him and accepted it with a grateful smile.

"Oh! It's warm!" He admired as he held it between his fingers.

"I'd just taken it out of the oven before we left."

"When ever did you make this?'

"Yesterday evening, but I didn't knead it much, you see. I get impatient," Moomin answered a bit self-consciously. "I know it's not as good if you don't, but kneading it for hours on top of letting it grow, it's just…" he trailed off. He was not Moominmamma, they both understood this.

Snufkin pressed the bread down with his fingertips, compacting it as he tried to fit it all in his mouth. Moomin, apprehensive, watched him chew through the large bite, cheeks full and rosy from the sun. Why did he have to stuff his face like that? Only to make him wait? Just a minute longer and Moomin would not have been able to stand looking at him anymore.

Snufkin, ever knowing, closed his eyes contently, long lashes giving him an air of peacefulness, and pat Moomin's knee jovially.

He liked it! Oh good.

When Snufkin finished swallowing it down, Moomin was there with another piece, mostly crust this time, and Snufkin took it again without a word. He got crumbs all over his lap, and half-heartedly brushed them off onto the rocks.

Moomin shifted closer despite himself, and tore another piece. He could have sworn that when Snufkin had moved to take it, he'd brushed his fingers against his for just a split second, leaned a bit nearer to his side, and did not sit back straight.

They sat and watched the waves crash below them until the tide threatened to pull in and strand them.

Snufkin set down the chunk of wood he'd been mindlessly carving (he had pilfered it from Moomintroll, and didn't know what it would be yet). He'd been content with the menial task, enjoying his peace, until he was struck with the feeling one got when something or someone new was about. He waited a beat in his tent, ears picking up whispers and rustling of foliage. How he hated dealing with people interrupting his alone time. Didn't they know that if a Snufkin was in his tent, that meant one shouldn't disturb him? Of course they didn't. They never did. Snufkin sighed. He knew they would not go away if he did not tell them off. Perhaps later he would move his tent into the little woods on the other side of the house where Moomin had cut down the tree, if it was to be like this. He'd hear anyone approaching there, but they wouldn't see him as easily, nor have any good reason to disturb him.

He crawled out of his tent hesitantly, instantly turning to Moomin's garden where two furry heads peaked behind the currants, then ducked with small gasps as they caught sight of him. Nothing could be done for the little feet poking beneath, however.

Snufkin felt much less irritated, then.

"What shy little creatures are stealing dear Moomintroll's currants so early in the morning?" he spoke up.

"We're nit stealin!" a little voice piped up even as a third sticky little face came into view behind the furthest bush. The other two hissed and scolded under their breaths before peeking out as well.

"Nothing wrong with stealing," Snufkin explained as he ambled closer and sat atop one of the wide wooden post (it was not a fence, Snufkin told himself) that were placed to support the heavy, fruit-laden bushes, and crossed his legs, back to the children. "But you've rather disturbed me."

"Sorry…" a little voice muttered.

Well, he supposed he needed a break. He ran his fingers through a clump of red currants and they fell effortlessly into his paw. They were in season, and very ripe. He tilted them into his mouth.

"Are you marrying Mr. Moomin?"

Snufkin choked as he squeezed the berries into mush. Sour juice ran down the wrong pipe and he coughed loudly like a dying thing, spitting seeds and skins into the grass.

Maybe currants weren't such a good idea.

The children squeaked and tumbled through the bushes, clasping onto a post and staring at him in worry as Snufkin wheezed and recomposed himself.

"I'm not marrying him."

"Mamma said Moomim was getty marry," the smallest voice argued, belonging to a skinny little thing with coarse brown fur and bare cheeks.

"Well not to me."

"And why not?" The eldest sounding child (this one a miffle, he was sure of it) whined.

Why not, indeed! What a question. There were so very many reasons why not. Snufkin could draw a list and never be done with it. Instead he settled for a plain answer, "Moomintroll and I simply aren't together like that. I'm only a friend."

"But you're here?" the third voice asked.

"I'm only visiting," he explained, and glanced over right as the little squat child's long trumpet nose scrunched itself up.

"I don't get it."

"Adults are silly," the eldest declared. "Me and Dordi are getting married."

"Truly?" Snufkin asked, amused. He knew not in the slightest who Dordi was. "Lovely. And when's the wedding?"

"I don't know," they muttered.

"That's very fair. Too much planning and it becomes a chore," Snufkin hummed, lightened by the shift in topic. He picked a few more currants, despite his common sense, and popped them in his mouth without incident, contently chewing on the tiny seeds. "What do they think?"

The child did not answer for several seconds, and Snufkin got the idea. "Does Dordi know you are marrying them?"

They hesitated again, and eventually answered in a small voice, wringing their dress, "no…"

"You can't marry someone if they don't want you to," Snufkin admonished, and the child dropped their head sadly at the news.

"Now don't look like that. They might want to, or they might not. And if they don't, then you have to let it go. That's all! But you won't know unless you communicate."

The irony of his own words didn't fall flat on Snufkin. He knew the trouble with his own situation. Here he was, giving advice he wasn't following. Communicating… He hadn't handled the topic best, last time. He'd been too eager to get away from it. Moomintroll and he ought to discuss it again. Properly, that time. Not just the proposal but… well, everything. There was something, he thought. Something important. But did he really know?

The children processed the information, and then the middlest turned to the eldest and spat out the most unexpecting thing: "You're stupid."

And that was when all semblance of calm was lost.

"I am not stupid!" the child shrieked, instantly angry, and stomped their little foot.

"Now, now, no one is stupid," Snufkin tried to placate, waving his arms.

"He thinks you're stupid!"

"I think no such thing!" Snufkin defended himself.

"He said you have to comumicate and if you don't coomicate then… Doody will HATE you! And then… And then you will DIE!"

That made the child wail, and Snufkin floundered. "That is not what I said! You wouldn't die! Why would you die?" he assured them frantically. The eldest's crying only prompted the youngest to do so as well. Oh stars, why did things always have to take a turn for the worst? Was no one sensible around here? They were all caught up in their own dramatics. Snufkin had no time for this.

But still, a crying child was a crying child.

"Hup-de-doo! Tilitili-doo!" Snufkin sang. The children quieted, if only to stare at him in bewilderment. Perhaps they were yet too old for such things, but at least it had done the trick. Snufkin stuck his paw into his pocket, finding only the charms and his box of matches. He'd left his harmonica on its cleaning rag.

"If you little grokelings behave I shall tell you a story," he suggested instead.

That seemed to do the trick. The children perked up with curiosity. Even the little miffle rubbed her eyes under her knitted brows. What a relief.

"Sit, sit!" Snufkin urged, and the children scrambled into the grass at his feet as if they hadn't been fighting at all. Snufkin brushed his paws together and thought carefully about a story.

There was the one with the elephant tree… No, no, he'd gotten tired of that one. Perhaps the shepherd and the mongoose? No, not that one either… Perhaps… Snufkin hesitated. He hadn't told this one in many years. It was one of his favourites. Yes, he decided, it was about time he shared it with someone again. Oh, what an occasion.

"Once upon a time, there was a man who'd lost his fire. He'd been caught in a terrible storm, and a squall had come and taken it."

"Is that like a seaguh?" the middlest child asked.

"It's a wind," Snufkin explained, and then continued, "now the storm had passed, and the man had looked for his missing fire everywhere. He'd searched for it far and wide, with no trace. He'd asked around if anyone had seen it, but nobody could say. They all offered him their own fires, but he refused. 'I need to find my fire,' he told them."

"I'm confused," the eldest children spoke up. "A fire fire? The hot kind?"

"Yes, a fire. That is what a fire is."

"Why didn't he just start a new fire?"

"He couldn't," Snufkin said matter-of-factly. "For all his firewood was wet, and it wasn't getting any drier."

"Why not? You said the storm passed." The question irked Snufkin. Did they not understand? His fire had gone, his wood was no good.

"Just because. Now don't interrupt me."

The children settled back down guiltily, and Snufkin cleared his throat and resumed. "Without his fire he'd gotten very cold. Nights were terrible, his teeth chattered so much that he couldn't sleep. And something in his chest had begun to harden into a heavy stone. So he decided that he should cover his little wooden cabin with dirt and grass to keep him warm. He built a large mound atop of it, lush and beautiful, and dappled with flowers of all shapes, sizes, and colours." The children wiggled in their spots, staring at him with wonder at the thought.

"And still, he was too cold." Their little faces fell, but Snufkin was not dissuaded. So was the story, and he had begun it, and as such, would would tell it as it was. No sense in tinkering with a good story, one would only ruin it.

"The ground encased him in its icy embrace, the roots seemed to transport all the chill of the night to him. He thought he would never be warm again. And his chest grew heavier and heavier with each passing day, until his feet dragged and he left large footprints behind him everywhere he went."

His audience looked between themselves, stirring with worry and fiddling with their hems and the grass beneath them. The littlest leaned in to whisper something.

"Hush!" Snufkin scolded. "I am just getting to the good part. If you cannot listen then I shall not tell it."

"Oh no, please!" "Please!" The children pleaded, for now they needed to know how it ended.

"Well!" Snufkin approved. "Do let me finish then. I can see that you are small, but it is only a little longer now." They all settled down as patiently as they could, eager for the rest.

"Where was I? Oh yes. The months came and went and the man grew heavier. Until one summer day found the sun shining brighter than it had since the storm. The man had come from the market, slow on his weighted feet, and he'd seen it burning atop a green green hill in full bloom. It looked so warm and familiar, and he mistook it as the long lost flame for his needy heart."

Snufkin could have cut the tension with a knife, and he found himself very pleased that he could still captivate even such agitated listeners.

"So delighted was he that he'd found it, that he bounded over the hill, not recognising it for his home. And as he stepped onto his roof, it gave under his weight, opened up, and his house swallowed him whole."

Silence hung. Three pairs of eyes, large as dinner plates, stared up at him.

The littlest sniffled, their long nose shaking, and made a sound like they were about to cry again. The other two furrowed their brows and looked at Snufkin most displeased and horrified. Snufkin didn't understand. Hadn't these children been morbid themselves just a moment ago?

"What does that have to do with getting married?" the miffle asked in a small shaky voice.

"Nothing," Snufkin huffed, very disappointed in the reception. "I never said it had to do with anything." It was only a story. He wasn't trying to give advice. It mattered not to him what they did with it.

"What happens next?"

"That's the end of it," Snufkin answered. He thought he'd made that quite clear.

"I didn't like that story," the middlest said.

"Well that's too bad, I'm not telling another." Snufkin was not in the mood for it now. He loved that story. His father had told it to him, and he'd been captivated. It had been retold in turn to his woodies, who had all sat in quiet contemplation with him, and pulled at the grass. Why then did these little ones not appreciate it too?

"Scamper off now," Snufkin told them, feeling very sour. "I have told you the story, and now I shall like to be alone."

The children didn't move.

"I said I'd like to be alone now, if you'd please," Snufkin repeated sharply.

They stared at him like kicked creeps for a beat, then finally rose to their feet, the youngest clinging to the others' dresses. Snufkin looked away petulantly. They had nothing more to ask of him, he'd given them what he had promised. He heard the rustling of bushes as they took their leave, and he didn't exhale until he thought they were well and going.

Truly, perhaps he was being harsh, but Snufkin thought it was a good story. Rarely did anyone appreciate it enough. Every time he told it, it was as if the recipient took it and stomped all over it. No wonder he rarely shared it these days.

When he'd told it to Moomintroll as children, he had gotten that familiar old look of his. The same one he used to wear when Snufkin would leave for winter, before he'd come to accept it. Something of dreadful misery, full of complaints and denial.

Of course it was a sad tale. No one but his father could be expected to laugh at such a thing. But tragedies were good. Tragedies had depth. They left one thinking and clung to one's soul for a long time. And was that not what was so good about stories?

Snufkin thought it deserved more than horror. What did one have to be to appreciate it? What circumstances allowed one to connect to sadness without pushing it away, nor drowning in it?

He wondered… It was so long since he'd last told it to him. Perhaps Moomintroll would see it differently now. That was a thought. It made Snufkin excited all at once. Maybe he would understand now. His friend was much more grown, after all, no longer the crying little troll, begging Snufkin to stay. Maybe he could tell it again.

With that thought in mind, he rose and quickly made his way to Moomin's door. It was open, as expected, and Snufkin ducked inside. Moomin was made comfortable on the couch, and startled from his spot when Snufkin greeted him, book falling closed on a page which he wouldn't remember.

"Snufkin! Hello!" He sounded overjoyed, but just a touch confused by his friend's unexpected appearance. Suppose he had a right to be, Snufkin's intentions were particular.

However, his motivation faltered and his words died in his throat under Moomin's expectant gaze. Instead of what he came for, he said, "you've got little beasts in your garden."

"Beasts, what?"

"Children."

"Oh! Is that why there was crying?" Moomin's head whirled to the window in an attempt to spot them, but Snufkin knew well that they had gone. Moomin got up quickly after, leaving his book in his spot.

"Are they here often?" Snufkin asked.

"Yes, I let them eat my fruit. Don't you worry, I'll tell them not to pester you again when I see them."

"It's no trouble. I've told them a story," he ventured, hoping Moomin would take the bite. And bite he did.

"Oh?" His white ears wiggled curiously atop his head. "Which one?"

"The one with the fire and the turf house."

And then they drooped. Moomin looked sorely disappointed, and Snufkin felt much the same. He conceded that he may never be able to tell it to him again.

"You've told them that one? Snufkin, but that's terrible!"

"It’s not terrible," he argued.

"You only say that as you’re the one telling it. Try hearing it sometime."

"I have. How do you think I got it? The Joxter told it to me, haven't I said?"

Moomin frowned. "Yes well there's something wrong with the Joxter. I don't understand why you like that story, Snufkin."

Snufkin only huffed. Of course he'd say that. Why did Snufkin think it would go differently? Why did he expect Moomin to see it like he did?

Moomin stiffened shamefully at his reaction and quickly rethought. "But well... if you like it then you like it. I'm sorry I said that. I don't have to understand."

Something in Snufkin's chest took off like a bird in flight. Quick, soft feathers. Oh. Oh… What a troll. What a good, good troll. He really couldn't be angry.

Moomin made his way to him like he would startle him, and Snufkin wanted to think of something to say, wanted to plan it out and try again but he found he couldn't. His head was far too empty all of a sudden.

Moomin finally stopped in front of him and asked, "are you hungry?"

"No."

His friend regarded him a little longer. "Nervous?"

Snufkin swallowed. Nervous? What did he have to be nervous about? Surely Moomin couldn't tell, couldn't he? 

Moomin smiled at him, those blue eyes crinkling. "Don't worry, they'll be here soon, and they'll all be very happy to see you again."

Ah. Snufkin's breath expelled out of him all at once. Right, there was the woodies to think about. How silly that he'd thought… well, he'd thought. Perhaps this would have been the right time to talk about their situation, but Snufkim couldn't bring himself to. A part of him itched to have the words he wanted to speak pulled out of him, so that they wouldn't catch in his throat much longer. Another part of him was relieved that he hadn't trapped himself into the conversation.

As it was, he couldn't bear to look Moomin in the eye, but Moomin didn't seem to share that same apprehension. The troll studied him carefully, and then he said, "your hair has gotten very long."

It was an obvious statement, so there had to be intent behind it. And indeed, when Moomin reached out cautiously, Snufkin knew to expect it, and didn't shy away. Moomin took a lock that had fallen over his shoulder, admiring the way it slipped from his paw. "When did you last cut it?"

"I don't think I have since I left."

Contemplatively, Moomin looped an arm around Snufkin's shoulder and gathered all of his hair to the front, a dense mass of frayed mane, wispy beneath his fingers. Snufkin stared at the troll's paws as he combed through the tangles, loosening them gently. What large and wonderful paws.

"It must get stuck a lot, if you don't comb it."

"Sometimes. Trees seem to like it."

"You should tie it."

"And look like a Mymble?" Snufkin scoffed. "I'd rather leave it be."

"Well what about braiding it?" the other suggested.

Braiding it? Snufkin paused, debating. It had been a long time since he'd last worn his hair in a plait. Snorkmaiden used to do it for him, before.

"I could comb it for you," Moomin offered, and Snufkin's eyes flickered to his, staring deep into the blue. The world seemed to narrow down to just the air between them and the paws tangled in his locks, carrying sparks up into his scalp.

"I suppose it couldn't hurt."

Moomin smiled softly at him. "Do sit then."

Snufkin didn't move right away, almost hesitant to break eye contact.

"I'll get a brush," Moomin said, pulling away.

When he returned, Snufkin had settled on the very edge of the couch and almost deflated on himself as the tension he'd carried earlier had died out. He was hunched over with his hat in his lap and his hair falling down all sides like rivulets. He'd shaken it out in preparation. His head raised upon hearing Moomintroll, and the hair fell loosely over his face.

Moomin stepped over his legs and settled beside him, and Snufkin shifted so that his back could face him, and waited for it. Moomin took a pawful of mane and ran the brush through it. It wasn't easy, it caught instantly in the tangles. He pulled painfully against them, much too impatient for such things, in Snufkin's opinion. Yet he didn't say it, only grit his teeth and sat through it without complaint as knots grew worse and hair was pulled out before it could get any better.

It was worth it in the end as he watched the strand almost fizzle with energy, fluffed and soft as it came free.

He felt fingers press behind his sensitive ear to steady him as the troll took the next strand, and the mumriken exhaled deeply, and kept his gaze fixed in front of him. Could Moomintroll feel how hot his head had gotten? Could he feel his pulse there? Snufkin found his breath coming uneven, his arms shaking slightly in his lap. He tried to quell the jitteriness, to calm himself and not let on to his nervousness as Moomin worked.

When he'd finished with the brushing and Snufkin's hair was smooth and untangled as it hadn't been in a while, Moomin gently went about splitting it into thirds, smoothing his paws down each to catch the pesky stray and broken hairs. His knuckles grazed against the back of Snufkin's neck as he crossed the first strands, and he dared to lean close, resting his forearms against the hunch of his back. They burned through Snufkin's smock and into his skin as Moomin braided down, until he couldn't keep the contact anymore and had to pull back to finish the ends.

"Can you hold this?" Moomin asked as he passed the end of the braid over the other's shoulder. Snufkin took it, holding it dutifully so it wouldn't fall apart. Moomin retrieved the ribbon he'd brought and went around to his front, leaning down towards him, so so close that Snufkin was breathing the air out of his nose. He looped the faded green ribbon above Snufkin's fingers and pulled tight, tying a strong knot and then a bow, just a little lopsided, slightly uneven, clearly done so for Snufkin's sake.

Lightheaded, Snufkin let the braid fall limp over his shoulder, reached one paw for Moomin's and one for the troll's scruff, burying into the soft fur. Moomin's eyes flickered over his face, breath warm, body warm. So close.

Snufkin's reeled himself back, dropping his paws."Thank you," he said, his voice sounding odd in his own ears.

Moomin blinked at him, then stood up straight. "Oh. Right. Yeah, of course."

They stared at each other, both feeling uncharacteristically awkward and unsure of what to do but unwilling to part, until Moomin suggested, very quickly, "come with me to the Mymble's. I need to bring him bread, and a scolding."

"No," was Snufkin's instantaneous reply. Moomin's face fell.

"I knew you'd say that," he mused dejectedly. "Are you sure? He's pleasant. He might have rum and a few cigars," Moomin then taunted. "The good kind."

Snufkin stared at him pointedly from under his hat. He did love a good cigar, now and then. "You could bring me some," he suggested.

"Wouldn't be polite, now would it?" Moomin mused, grinning like the cat that got the cream.

Snufkin supposed he was going, then. What was one more unpleasant encounter to an ever-growing list?

The Mymble's wife was on the recliner outside when they arrived. She was built like a brick wall, as intimidating as the first time Moomin had seen her. She sat with her ankles crossed but not betraying the look of someone who has never relaxed a day in their life, stiff at the joints and straight as a board. She was grinding the end of a lit cigar between her teeth. There was a whole box on the little table beside her. Moomin rejoiced that he'd been right.

When she saw them approaching she fixed them with a hard stare and, in one swift motion, more flung than flicked the ash into the grass. "Whatchu want?" She grumbled, voice gruff and unpleasant to the ear. She was being polite today, it seemed.

"Hello!" Moomin greeted. "We're here to see your husband."

"You're always here to see my husband."

"This is Snufkin," Moomin introduced, waving his paw towards his friend.

"Yeah, I heard," she responded dismissively, and eyed the Mumriken with apparent disinterest.

"Moomintroll!" The Mymble's voice rang from house, having heard them. He popped into the open doorway for but a moment. "And the talk of the town! What a surprise!" It always was. Had to be with him, to avoid disaster.

"I'll be done here in a minute," the Mymble called as he disappeared back in. "Would your fellow like a smoke?"

"Don't have any smaller," his wife called back as if that made any sense.

"Why would you need smaller?" Snufkin asked as he froze halfway reaching for the box. His voice was neutral, but Moomin could tell he was irked.

She burst into laughter like it was a joke. "You're too runty!" she barked. "Look at yourself, wee thing!"

Snufkin's small incensed form coloured like a plum.

"Give the boy a cigar, Kaapri" the Mymble urged as he finally made his way out, drying his paws on a checkered dish rag.

"He's thirty," Moomin corrected. Then he stopped, and turned to Snufkin. "Are you thirty?"

Snufkin fixed him with an equally uncertain expression, then looked down at his paws and bent a few fingers. "I suppose. At least."

"Well! He's thirty or up!" Moomin declared.

"Could have taken him for one of the tykes," Kaapriella commented, just to salt the wound.

"Are all your children bestubbled and deep voiced?" Moomin retorted.

The answer he got did not take the conversation in the direction he'd expected. "Mine? Ha!" she laughed. "I never bore a single child for this harlot."

Moomin and Snufkin both stood in surprise at the word. The Mymble himself, however, chuckled and threw the rag across the back of the recliner.

"That's a mean thing to say," Moomin spoke hesitantly. The Mymble locked eyes with his wife then, both in evident confusion.

"Why would it be?" He asked.

"Just telling it how it is, kid," his wife added. "He's a Mymble, what do you expect?"

Moomin wasn't certain why that upset him so much, but something built up in him then. His side burned. He didn't look at Snufkin.

"Is that really what you think? Why are you married to one then?" Moomin pressed, even as Snufkin squirmed uncomfortably next to him. He knew he was making the situation unpleasant, but he had taken offense. On behalf of whom, he wasn't sure.

Kaapriella gave him a look that told him all she thought of him. "Because I love him. Dumb question," she explained, her voice softer than Moomin had heard before, and it took him by surprise. "You think it bothers me? You have a lot to learn about relationships, fuzzball."

Moomin wanted to say no, he knew very well what a relationship was. He understood very well what giving freedom was like. But something in him hesitated.

"Here," Kaapriella addressed Snufkin, seemingly decided, as she lazily flipped a cigar out of the box in his direction. Snufkin caught it easily, and tilted his hat in thanks.

"Is it time for fika?" the Mymble asked, turning the conversation back to their visit.

"No, actually," Moomin spoke tentatively. He slipped his basket off of his arm, and walked forward to gift it to the Mymble. His wife would never have taken it. "I baked it this morning."

The Mymble lifted the cloth and smiled brightly. "How nice of you, Moomintroll! Shall we have this sliced now? With cucumbers and radishes!"

"Oh, no it's alright, I—Actually!" Moomin had to remind himself why he was there, and that he was cross. He put his paws on his hips, and fluffed up, trying to look very mean. Kaapriella laughed.

"I have a hen to pluck with you! You've been going about telling people that Snufkin and I have gotten—" Moomin's words caught, and he had to clear his throat, "engaged."

It was the Mymble's turn to laugh at him then. "Haven't you?"

"No, we haven't!" Moomin declared. He turned back to Snufkin, who stood awkwardly with a matchbox in his paw, and the large end of the cigar between his teeth. He had to open his mouth all the way to hold it. Moomin's mind went blank, forgetting what he'd meant to say. He just stared.

And then sputtered and exploded with laughter. Kaapriella joined him.

Snufkin, clearly offended, muttered something unintelligible around his smoke, struck a match, and finally lit it. He looked such a silly sight, Moomin couldn't help it. It had burst out of him before he'd been able to stop it.

Oh, oh, he had tears in his eyes. He sniffed and tried to calm himself by looking away. The Mymble had a big smile on his face, one Moomin didn't trust in the slightest.

"You're not engaged?"

"We're not engaged," Moomin assured, still tickled and smiling widely. He really couldn't be mad. It all felt funny now. "We're just friends, so don't go telling people falsities now. You could not believe the trouble you've caused us."

"Yes, yes," the Mymble brushed him off good-naturedly. Moomin wasn't sure if he'd made his point at all, but let it go.

Kaapriella, her own laughter having trailed down and seemingly put in an equally good mood, suggested, "scotch to wash it down?"

Moomin glanced to Snufkin again, who had taken his cigar out of his mouth to exhale, and was pointedly not looking at him, and it pulled a smile from him, the vibration of a laugh still trapped in his chest. "Rum for Snufkin, if you have it."

They didn't have it, as it turned out, but they did have a cherry liqueur that Snufkin was all too happy with. Moomin swirled his own glass, and tried not to stare too fondly as he alternated between sipping from it, and taking a drag from that ridiculously large roll.

They'd pulled up a few chairs onto the lawn as Kaapriella had brought the drinks (for the Mymble's boundless streak of havoc would have surely caused him to spill them. Moomin would like to find out, someday, just who had cursed him so).

Moomin didn't get to drink with the Mymble's wife very often, but it was always a big thing. She always guzzled her drink and slammed her glass down like she had something to prove. He didn't know how their glasses survived, all he knew was that they evidently weren't crystal. Moomin feared letting her touch his cups.

"Tell me, what is that flag?" the Mymble asked, pointing out to the lines of colour flapping high up on the hill by their home.

"Spain," Moomin answered confidently.

"Ireland, you daft troll," Snufkin corrected. "You don't know a thing about flags."

"Well maybe I don't need to know anything about flags! They're silly anyways, and you along with them," Moomin argued, with no real offence behind it.

"I think a few of my own are in Ireland now," the Mymble said. "Have you been yourself?" He addressed Snufkin.

"Certainly!" He paused. "Well, not in a very long time."

"Sure, travelling sort… always seeking someplace new, yes?" the Mymble chuckled. "I used to do it myself, but it's so fine and grand here. I suppose that makes me a little odd. Most of my own don't agree. Mymbles are a lot like you mumrikar, I don't suppose you'd know? We don't fancy settling."

"Well! I suppose I would know!" Snufkin began. "My mother is a Mymble."

The Mymble lit up from head to toe at that. "Your mother! Goodness! That explains your beautiful hair. A rare one, are you? How very wonderful! Why I've only had one like you. A very sweet girl. Pity I don't know what she is."

"You don't know?" Moomin questioned. How could one not know what species their own child was?

"No, her mother was nothing like I'd seen before, certainly. I never dared to ask her what she was. I like the scary ones, you see. and I never thought it important! Sure, go away and imagine my surprise when out came a single child with long floppy ears! I first thought there must have been some mistake, but it was just a little wonder."

"Wow…" Moomin marveled. "Is it really that rare?"

"Depends on the Mymble, I'd imagine. Perhaps the more mixed the parent's blood the more likely it is. Still, very wonderful… very wonderful indeed. She's got beautiful fluffy ears, my little Moiken, you know? Strikingly beautiful, you gems tend to be."

He reached across and pinched Snufkin's cheek then, who nearly dropped his cigar as he yowled and pulled away.

"In fact…!" The Mymble stood up suddenly, and nearly knocked the table. "Watch it," his wife warned.

"Wait just a moment." He hurried past, towards his shed, and threw the door open with a bang. Moomin and Snufkin both turned to Kaapriella in question, who only shrugged. They waited uneasily as the Mymble rummaged around until he found what he was looking for.

Snufkin saw the fishing hat in his paws instantly, set his glass and smoke down, stood, and backed away, knowing, as the man approached.

"This would suit your face just grand! It's never been worn, take it." The Mymble stretched it out towards Snufkin, who clutched at his own beloved one.

"No thank you. I am quite happy with my current hat."

"Shame, it would have looked lovely with your round cheeks," the Mymble deflated, but didn't push further, plopping the hat on his own close cropped head instead. Snufkin straightened and let go of his brim hesitantly, almost confused by how simple that had been. Moomin smiled at him, relieved. The Mymble was eccentric, but he meant well.

Unfortunately though, that wasn't the end of it.

"You don't like a hat, then surely you would like a fish!"

"That's quite unnecessary, I've been fishing for myself," Snufkin argued. The Mymble only smiled wider and jogged back to his shed, and the reason for that made sense when he suddenly pulled a large object from the rafters. It was a very wide polystyrene tray, in which appeared to be a rainbow trout, wrapped up in cellophane. Snufkin perked up for an instant. But upon closer inspection, it appeared not to be a real fish at all, rather a stuffed likeness. He grimaced in distaste upon recognising that. Moomin held back a laugh. One could still fool a Snufkin, it seemed.

"Snufkin isn't one for more than necessities," Moomin explained to the Mymble, his voice betraying some of his amusement. Snufkin crossed his arms, sour.

"Oh, of course! Terribly sorry!" The Mymble apologised genuinely and pushed the tray back where he'd found it. "Look at me, getting carried away… I'm scarlet!"

He made his back and sat dejectedly. Snufkin and Moomin shared a confused look, and the Mumrik sat back down as well.

"Empty nest syndrome," Kaapriella explained. "It's a constant these days. Don't worry about it."

"I haven't seen a young Mymble like you in an age. All of mine have gone now, off to live their own lives. It's wonderful, but I'm in a state without them, still."

Moomin fidgetted. His thoughts drifted to his own mother, and how long it had been since he'd last seen her. He wondered how she was fairing. She still had Little My, at least.

"Snufkin has children," Moomin stated, the first thing crossing his mind that wasn't of himself. Snufkin shot him an agitated look.

"Woodies. They're adopted," he specified hurriedly.

"Woodies!" the Mymble exclaimed. "Go away, I've never seen a woodie! Sure, that is so lovely, oh!" He seemed much better already. "So nice to see another father."

Moomin glanced at Snufkin, asking then, and the other sighed and nodded, and picked his cigar back up. Moomin turned back to the Mymble. "We've invited them, in fact. They're in a theater, and we thought it'd be nice to have a play."

"A play!" The Mymble jumped, just as his wife scoffed. "A play in our little town? Why I've never heard anything better! Oh, should I… They're so much work to organize, plays. Have you need of any help?"

"No, no!" Moomin cried in a panic, waving his paws. "There's really no need!"

"Pity. Well if you need help, you know who to call," he spoke proudly, patting his own chest, and Moomin smiled awkwardly.

"Yes… I'll be sure to let you know."

And with that they'd eliminated the need for posters and invitations, Moomin concluded. Now everyone would know, for certain. He locked eyes with Snufkin, and his smile morphed into something hopefully encouraging.

He only hoped the play would prove a good enough distraction. Not much longer now and Moomin wouldn't have to think of Snufkin and marriage together anymore. Not much longer now and he could go back to his waiting. Only this time, with Snufkin by his side. As a friend, and nothing more, of course.


	4. That Which Changes And That Which Stays

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a reunion and we come to learn some things about Snufkin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!! Sorry for the terribly long wait! I can't believe it's been nearly a year. Thank you to everyone who's been patient. This chapter was a nightmare and a half to write, but it's done! I can hardly believe it. Hopefully I'll be able to keep moving forward with this fic now.
> 
> I've reworked the previous chapters a bit, mostly just polishing, nothing big enough to warrant a reread, but I did add two notable details in chapter 3 which I'll list here so you're all up to date (call this fic patch notes):  
> \- Moomin is said to have delivered the completed sign to the Limner for painting;  
> \- Moomin receives a letter from the woodies agreeing to the invitation, and the (very misspelled) letter from Moominmamma which you see here.
> 
> Also this fic has art by [alltheusernamesaretaken24 on tumblr](https://alltheusernamesaretaken24.tumblr.com/post/613890709345484800/i-told-you-i-would-do-fanart-for-kicking-roses-i)!! Thank you so much!!!
> 
> Anyway I hope you enjoy the chapter and that you're all as well as you can be in these rough times.
> 
> (Also Snorkmaiden honey I love I'm so sorry Snufkin would even say that. He's gonna get a stern talking to when she finds out.)

_My dear dilligent and independant Moomintroll,_

_How nice that you should ~~rite~~ write! Have you been eating well? You have not told me since your last letter how you are still ferring out there on your own. I am so very proud of you, as you know. We are well here, but we miss you terribly. Moominpappa would write, but he has been caught in another ~~bout~~ ~~baut~~ spell of inspiration, and you know how he is, coopd up in the study, unwilling to write anything else and risk breaking his momenmtum! So you will have to forgive my dredfull spelling. _

_Little My has been going about being her brave little self. She and Toft have been a trememendous help with chores in your absense. My poor paws are still strong but not what they used to be. I know they miss you too._

_But I understand you haven't written for news of us. I am proud to hear you are still well on your search and com ~~m~~ it ~~t~~ ed to the tradition, but do remember to take care of yourself. Inpatience is bad for the mind. I know you have been waiting for a time, dear, but I do not think you have to worry about such things. Call it moder's intuitition. Anyone who finds you will love you surely, because you are my perfect little Moomintroll. _

_What hapened with Pappa was an accident, but it worked out nicely. I was on my own search when I ended up to the sea. It did not go as planned. Your fader was not prep ~~e~~ aring to get married either, and had no nowledge of the tradition in the first place. But the world chose to bring us together in its own way. And how fun to have gotten to do it once more after I had you! _

_But do not ~~base~~ baize yourself too much on our story. Your own will be much different. It doesn't really matter how it happens, truth folly. It is only about the trek. It will not be just anyone, but someone who has travelled to see you. _

_As for not under standing what they have done, likely is it to happen. Do not be surprised iff it does. We live with many other cretures who live their own wonderful lives with their own wonderful traditions. I suppose back in a time when moomintrolls only married other moomintrolls, this was not so much of a ~~isue~~ problem. How lovely it is that we can now have this problem at all! _

_You will be called to them iff it is the person, dear. Fate has a funny way of playing out, I would not worry about it before anything even happens._

_And iff it is not the right person, iff they do not wish to marry you, or you do not wish to marry them, or iff, indeed as you are freting, your person is ~~bie~~ biulding their own house and waiting for you, then the world will give you an other. There is not one person, dear. Only oportunities sent your way. You do not have to take them. And you do not have to worry about running out of time. There is no ~~rush~~ rash on love. _

_You will find someone, and you will simply know it is them. Your bond will ring true-er then any other. Trust your heart, dear. You have the biggest and most beautifull one of all, and it will not fail you. It will call to you the one who cheriches it._

_All will work out fine in the end, ~~which~~ wich ever way it works out. _

_Love,_

_Your ever proud Moominmamma_

"Moomintroll? You had better come see this!" Snufkin called from where he was perched on the deck. A thud resounded from inside the house, and he reluctantly pried his eyes away from the sight before him.

Moomin came frantically rushing out the door next, brushing brown dust off his white front as soon as he stepped past the mat. Their freshly ground coffee, if Snufkin had to guess.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

Snufkin gestured with his chin towards the distance. Moomin's gaze followed curiously, and he made his way closer to the bannister so that he could look around Snufkin's form.

"Appears the venue has finally reached us," Snufkin announced, with a smile at his lips and a kick of his legs.

Indeed, a massive, impressive structure was slowly making its way through the bay, past the main part of it, and nearing the end where Moomintroll's house stood. It was all reds and golds, ornate, with its odd silhouette against the sky, and the arched stage front and center. It was unlike any ship. It looked more akin to a precariously stacked collection of buildings than anything else.

"Goodness, they've wasted no time at all," Moomin admired, and one had to agree, for it was rather early indeed. More so than either of them could have foreseen. Though perhaps it was better that way, with the anticipation cut short. The sight alone filled Snufkin with both relief and giddiness. However, there was one thing…

"It's much larger than I remembered," Snufkin pointed out.

"Looks like they've expanded it. It's quite something…" Moomin said, trailing off in that tone one used when they had more on their mind. _Quite something… Certainly,_ Snufkin thought, waiting for it. He had the inkling that the troll was none too impressed, and surely he was proven right. "Rather shoddy work, though," Moomin critiqued with the air of a seasoned appraiser—hardly a title befitting of a troll who had built much worse. Snufkin shot him a taunting smile that had Moomin's cheeks fluff and his brow furrow in offense.

"It was my first work!" he defended himself, referring to the house he'd made for Snufkin's mother. "The plans were far better, I just had to make… _adjustments_ during its construction."

"Improvisations," Snufkin corrected.

"Right. Just you try building a house," Moomin bristled, and Snufkin chuckled, delighted in the absurdity of such a suggestion.

"I have no intention of doing so," he told him decidedly.

"Of course you don't." Moomin came to rest his elbows onto the bannister next to him, his large body arching down to reach it. He settled his snout into his paws, and Snufkin spared him one last glance before joining him in watching the theater float their way.

Close as it was now, Snufkin could make out many familiar faces on the stage—troupe members and non-troupe members alike. There seemed to be all 24 of them, including the few woodies who hadn't much talent and had been staying with Emma's niece. Snufkin was relieved. It would save him another trip to have them all here at once.

It was one of the actors, Vitpyrola, who was the first to wave his way. She struck a tall and lively figure, impossible to miss even at a distance. The rest of the bunch followed suit. Snufkin lifted his hat by the brim and waved it back in greeting, sudden fondness flaring in his heart. He squashed it down quickly, as he always did. They were lovely children, yet he still couldn't bring himself to get too attached. Not with twenty-four of them.

Moomin stood straight and waved back exuberantly beside him. Snufkin's chest pulled stubbornly once more, not willing to settle without a fight. He liked this direction even less than the last.

The troll kept waving far longer than necessary, keeping it up even as Snufkin had replaced his hat atop his head; even as most of the woodies had stopped themselves. _How endearing_ , Snufkin couldn't help but think. _So enthusiastically welcoming_. There was something about being sat next to Moomintroll, patient alongside his eagerness, two awaiting figures, together lonesome, a beacon in a pair. Snufkin couldn't place the odd feeling, couldn't give it source or reason, but for a moment he saw in it something very frightening.

And then, all of a sudden, Moomin's arm stilled mid-motion. Snufkin eyed him in confusion from where he sat. "Wait…" Moomin started. One could practically hear the gears turning in his head, and that had Snufkin rather concerned. He turned to him proper. Was something the matter? "Larger…"

It seemed to hit Moomin all that once then, the troll jumping to his feet as though a tiny mymble had pulled his tail. "They won't be able to make it through!"

Snufkin's head shot back to the water, making quick visual comparisons to confirm that indeed, the structure was far wider than what he presumed the navigable passage to be, judging by the times he'd seen it at low tide, and how much distance Moomin had taken when navigating it. But the tide was up again now, and one unaware of the waters had no indication to what lay below.

"They'll get stuck on the rocks!" Moomin cried unnecessarily, for it was quite clear already. Snufkin felt an inkling of worry rise up in him.

"HEY! HEYYY!" the troll promptly began jumping and waving about, trying to catch the troupe's attention to the danger. The woodies on stage did not seem to realise his intent at all. They waved back, oblivious to the meaning behind the gesture. Snufkin slipped off the railing and joined in, attempting to mime it clearer, open palm crashing against fist, and fingers pointing frantically as Moomin continued crying out.

"STOP THE SHIP—stage? STOP THE STAGE!" his voice rang out through the bay, loud and clear enough to give the actors pause. But instead of reacting, they all looked amongst themselves. _Children_ , Snufking thought, _they never do as they're told._

"Turn around!" Snufkin clarified, his voice not reaching even as he cupped his paw around his mouth. He hadn't yelled in a rather long while. He cleared his throat and tried again, louder that time.

Still, their efforts were in vain. It was too late. They both knew then when a deafening groan of scraping wood resounded through the bay.

"Oh dear," Snufkin spoke calmly as the silence settled. "They'll be stuck there for a while."

Moomin lept into action, his large figure stumbling round the side of the house and running straight through the bushes to reach the stairs that led down to the jetty. Snufkin followed on quick feet.

Moomin could see the energy emanating off of Snufkin before they even reached the stage. Despite how he tried to hide it, he still shook like an overexcited little mite, tremors all the way down to the edge of his smock where his tail could be seen wagging beneath its cover. He was at the bow, just waiting to jump off. Moomin couldn't help but smile at that as he brought the boat close.

The woodies congregated where they were to disembark, in a tightly packed crowd of greens like a thicket. They chattered indistinctly over each other and the roar of the engine.

Moomin threw the painter into the fray, and they all scrambled over themselves to catch it, tugging the boat close. As soon as the side bumped the stage, Snufkin was climbing on. A woodie in denim overalls hurried to his side, taking his elbow to help him up, and others quickly followed suit.

Snufkin's laughter rang among overjoyed squeals as he stood free for a moment, before being positively attacked. Moomin could not see hide nor hair of him then, lost in the gaggle of teenagers, most now much taller than Snufkin himself. Oh dear. He hoped they would go easy on him. Snufkin was such a little thing, and he got so terribly overwhelmed so fretfully quickly.

Without anyone to help him—all far too distracted—Moomin was left to climb out on his own. He used all his strength to pull his heavy body up, and landed flat onto the hardwood, foot wiggling over the edge as he tried to push himself fully onto it.

How very many woodies there were, he noted as he finally stood. How very rambunctious, the lot of them. Moomin still hadn't come to learn all their names. He couldn't even remember most of the ones Snufkin had told him. Forget-me-not and lilac, snowdrop and tulip… All flower names, it seemed. Often he got them mixed up; more often he simply assumed different flowers entirely.

Even less could he assign faces to them, having never really spent much time with the woodies in the first place. He knew them more from Snufkin's talk of them than in person.

So, understandably, he found himself quite out of place before all of that activity. Moomin was not the kind to be crowd shy, but this particular crowd was very unfamiliar to him, and yet still very important. And they were so focused on a singular thing, so much so that he could not insert himself and spark conversation. How very hard it was to get along with teenagers, as well. It had him all rather apprehensive.

His eyes searched over the moving heads for anyone or anything to attach himself to. Snufkin, ideally. Instead, he found a very familiar old stage rat.

Emma was looking on disapprovingly from the back, in the shade of the curtain. She had her arms crossed, broom inside her elbow. Moomin felt it right to say hello, but never much knew how to speak to her. It all felt uncomfortable. And would she remember him, even? It had been many years. How many Moomins had she met since his family had taken refuge in her theater?

"Moomintroll!"

An arm swung out of the swarm, the brief sight of a face before it was lost, and Moomin took hold without a moment's hesitation, pulling. Snufkin stumbled out, heels clacking against the floorboards as he stepped wrong, tangling in his own legs. Moomin brought him close and caught his shoulder, steadying him.

For a moment, he saw the odd look thrown his way—one of the woodies was watching them from the outskirts of the group, where Snufkin had emerged. They had blue flowers braided into their bangs, beneath which their eyebrows were lost, as if they had seen something quite unexpected.

Feeling almost as though he'd been caught on top of a fyke-net, Moomin quickly let go of his best friend, just in time for the rest of the troupe to realise that they had lost the man. A confused quiet spread, and in that quiet the most lovely sound rang out once more—Snufkin laughed.

"Now, now, you terrible grokelings! One at a time! Take pity on an old man."

"Only old in name," came a response from a head shorter than the rest.

"Bleach your fur next time," said another.

Snufkin laughed harder, and Moomin found himself quite struck.

  
  


They embarked the woodies into Moomin's boat eight at a time. Snufkin stood behind to speak with those that remained as Moomin would take the small groups to shore and release them onto his home. Booble knew what they'd get up to the moment they ran up those stairs. Moomin tried not to worry. They were grown enough to have some sense ( _some_ , but not all), and they weren't mymbles in any case. Still, he hoped they would not trample his poor flowers.

On the third way back, Emma had made her way into the light. Moomin greeted her, but she only snorted in response. He still had no clue whether she remembered him. "Won't you come ashore as well?" he asked her.

"When I finally get a chance for rest? Never," she answered disdainfully, turning her nose up at the mere suggestion.

Moomin had trouble taking that, never one to easily accept a rejection of hospitality. "Are you sure?"

"Quite."

"Leave her, if her stage is stuck she's stuck with it," the last of the woodies commented as they passed him, hopping into the boat.

"Like a captain…" Moomin pondered, and turned to it as well, catching Snufkin's awaiting face by the wheel. Right. No dilly-dallying, he had a bunch of scamps on the loose that he needed to get back to, or he would need to build a brand new house. He'd get to talk with her some other time, if that was even to happen.

They were settled out in the partial shade of the orchard, one big group passing slices of fruit between each other, gathered from the various trees overhead. Snufkin cut into them with his pocket knife, juice dripping down onto the pile in his lap and no doubt staining his smock underneath it all, though he did not seem to mind.

Moomin watched from the spot of grass where he lay, arms crossed beneath his snout and tail swaying gently like a poplar in the breeze. Snufkin did quick work, turning peaches in his palm to halve them, a clean cut all the way around that somehow connected back perfectly. Moomin didn't know how he did it. His own cuts always went off in one direction, and then he'd have to struggle to join the ends again.

It was rather insignificant a task, really, but Moomin couldn't help being impressed. Snufkin just made it look so easy, scooping out the pit and flicking it away in one quick motion. He held the halves in his paw, fearlessly slicing through them directly into his palm—his soft palm, smooth and cushiony, so much so that the dull blade proved no harm, leaving not even a scratch. And how good, that. Moomin would have worried, were he using anything sharper. He still worried, really. He was not keen on seeing Snufkin's paws hurt.

Once he was done, Snufkin handed the peach slices out to go around. Moomin found there was something curious and familiar about the sight of him insistently placing wedges into the nearest woodie's paw. He wondered if Snufkin thought at all of the similarities with what Moomin had done for him a few days back, feeding him fresh bread. He wondered if Snufkin understood the meaning behind the action, or if he simply didn't give it much importance.

As he pondered over this, Snufkin moved on to a quince, raw and tough. The blade stuck into the flesh with every cut, and he had to pry it out. How the mumriken managed to eat those like that, Moomin could not understand. The texture was so dry, terrible on the tongue, like the white of an orange with none of the pulp, yet Snufkin would happily place slices in his mouth, and then still go for more. He'd always been curious like that, in many different ways, and it only made Moomin more intrigued by him, like a puzzle he was determined to figure out.

He wished he had picked a spot beside him, the distance regretfully large in retrospect. He had wanted to give the woodies their time with him, certainly, but selfish as it was Moomin could now only think of how he would have liked to have peaches placed from Snufkin's paw directly into his own. He would even bear eating raw quince if it meant he got to brush his fingers against Snufkin's.

They really were very lovely, his paws. Despite how much Snufkin worked with them they seemed to only gain more charm, from the veins that protruded on the back of them down to the calloused pads of his fingers. Oh how Moomin wanted to hold them in his own, or have them in his fur; how he wanted to press them to his snout.

Moomin hastily looked away. How silly of him, getting so wrapped up. He had to stop thinking of Snufkin's paws so much.

His ears had been tuned out to the buzz of conversation all this time, and he had not noticed until just then how loud his orchard had become. In all his time here it had never been so lively. He knew not even what the fuss was about. Some of the woodies argued loudly amongst themselves, others chattered over each other to Snufkin, but try as he might, Moomin could not pick out the mumriken's replies. Suppose it wasn't for him to overhear, but he very much wanted to know regardless. Snufkin had very many interesting things to say, and—oh! How foolish, he was thinking of him again. Moomin shook himself once more and opted to look around instead.

One woodie on his left was nestled at the base of a tree, hunched over a little exercise book and frowning down at it like they might burn a hole into it. They held their pen tightly, and scratched a line out with visible irritation. Moomin took interest right away, for he had nothing else to do, and he figured it was best to get to know the woodies one at a time. Even better if he could be helpful in doing so.

"What's that you've got there?" he chanced the question, hoping for some conversation. The woodie's head snapped up as if startled, and they blinked a few times, taking in that Moomin had spoken to them.

Like this, he could see their face was splotched with darker shades around their mouth and cheeks. Their hair, thick and stiff like blades of grass, was neatly combed out of their face and tucked behind their ear, a chain of small yellow buds blooming along the part. They wore a loose, long-sleeved blouse that looked much like a pirate's to Moomin, a decision he quite respected. If one was to wear clothes, why not have fun with it? He thought he would have liked to be a pirate too, if he could stand clothes.

"It's the script," they answered as though the question were baffling.

"For the play?"

"Yes."

"What's it about?" Moomin asked, lifting his snout into his paw. The woodie sat up straighter, and he thought they were about to tell him, when another voice cut in.

"You're still fussing over that? Put it down for a minute!"

Moomin looked over to the speaker, a lankier woodie in cuffed pants and a sleeveless undershirt, with their hair a long mess of imbricated stems and wide leaves. They had their knees tucked close as they stuffed their face with little regard for the mess.

"Put it down?" the first woodie echoed in offense. "Don't you know how soon it is? I don't have time to put it down!" they argued.

"Oh, you don't need to worry," Moomin assured them kindly. "We haven't a deadline. You can take as long as you need. We'll be quite happy with anything you can manage."

In his seemingly endless streak of blunders, however, his words seemed to have the opposite effect he'd been going for. The woodie's hair rose out of its groomed shape, falling over their ears. Moomin wasn't too familiar with what an upset woodie looked like, but if he had to guess, they appeared rather cross.

" _'Anything we can manage'_ is how you get dreadful plays. If I wanted to write the next _Pauper's Hair Net_ , I would have fed my script to niblings and let them spit it up."

The other groaned loudly in exasperation. "Let's not start with this again." They sounded as though they knew far more about what they spoke of than Moomin, who was finding himself much at a loss. He'd never heard of the _Pauper's Hair Net_ , you see.

"Let's not start what?" Snufkin's deep voice sounded out from across the group, and Moomin's gaze snapped to him in relief, like he'd just been thrown a buoy. Snufkin was staring curiously over at them, a whole crabapple in his paw.

"She's being a perfectionist," the messy eater answered.

"I best be, I'm writing this whole play!" the other snapped back.

Moomin watched Snufkin's eyes light up at those words. "You're writing it? Truly?" He placed his apple in one of his children's laps and rose, making his way over. Moomin's pelt tingled as Snufkin took a seat near him, much too pleased with the closed distance. He tried to keep his tail in check, lest it start wagging and giving him away. He wasn't being jealous again, Moomin told himself, he was just missing him a bit.

But unfortunately for Moomintroll, Snufkin was not there for him. And that was only evidenced by the smaller, fluffy woodie that attached to his side as soon as he settled. For a split second, Moomin regretted not having done so himself, before he came to his senses, mortified to have even thought it. Snufkin, none the wiser to his slip-up, began running his fingers through the woodie's hair as if on instinct, in much the same way he used to when searching Moomin for ticks, though his attention remained fixed on the playwright. "You have me very curious, I must say," he addressed them.

The playwright puffed up proudly as he said so. "It's been in the works for some time. I'm glad we finally get to play it." Their pride was short-lived, however, as they then deflated just as quickly. "I only hope that you will like it."

"I don't see why I shouldn't," Snufkin responded, and Moomin nodded enthusiastically in agreement. He wasn't familiar with many plays, but they were always great fun, if one wasn't being overshadowed by their own tail.

"You don't even know what it's about," the playwright argued.

Snufkin's smile grew, and he angled his face down to the woodie at his side, untangling a knot in their fine fluff as he answered, unconcerned, "no, but I know you."

The playwright let out a huff of frustration that pulled Moomin's attention back to them and away from Snufkin's paternal pampering. "You can't like a story simply because it's mine," they argued, slamming their little booklet down into the dirt, and Moomin felt a pang of sympathy, remembering all the times his own parents had praised him for work he wasn't proud of; remembering all the times that… Snufkin… Oh bugger. Now this was just typical of him, Moomin realised. He was full of praise even at the daftest of times, that mumrik.

Snufkin, on his part, did not seem guilty in the slightest about this habit, only laughing goodnaturedly. "I suppose that is true. There is no telling what one will truly like. Why I tried to tell some children a story of my own a few days back! They didn't take to it like all of you."

"Which one?" the smallest woodie piped up from his armpit. "Some of your stories have… a bit of a thing about them."

Snufkin's grooming stopped, and he stared down at them oddly. "A thing? What manner of thing? There are so very many things."

Unbeknownst to Moomin until that very moment, it appeared they had gathered some attention, as several more voices suddenly arose, pressing to know and echoing their littlest sibling. The woodies congregated around as if summoned by the prospect of a new story, and their circle was now much cozier, leaving Moomin feeling rather enclosed at the center of it. Snufkin seemed only far too overjoyed, smiling widely.

"The one with the turf house!" he answered proudly.

A chorus of groans went over the crowd, and some of it dispersed as quickly as it had formed. Snufkin appeared rather taken aback by that, as he looked around them all. "Well now! What is that reaction? Need I tell it again?"

"No!" came several cries in unison, and Snufkin recoiled slightly in surprise, blinking into empty space, looking for all the world completely lost. Oh dear… Moomin loved him terribly, but Snufkin could be so very unaware at times.

"I thought you all loved that story?" He spoke, beginning to sound unsure himself.

"How could anyone!" a voice cried out.

"It's terrible!" complained another. "And we've sat through it so many times."

"Vårskrinneblom still has phobias about it," informed a third.

Snufkin's brow knit at that. "Phobias? What ever are you talking about?" Snufkin blinked at the shaggy woodie who had spoken, and then turned to another tinier one with a very brown nose, presumably the woodie in question. "Is this true?"

They hesitated, wringing their paws into their voile neckerchief, but before they could decide to say anything, another beside them chose to answer instead, "yeah, he refuses to go near green roofs."

"We suggested a green roof for the theater once and you should have seen the fit he had," added one more voice from somewhere behind them. Moomin could not crane his neck quick enough to find out who had spoken.

When he looked back, he could only describe what Snufkin appeared to be experiencing as a confused array of emotions. Moomin did tell him it was a terrible story.

Snufkin began absentmindedly stroking the small woodie's hair again as he spoke, "I… hadn't thought…"

"No, you didn't," the playwright finally jumped in, "but it's alright. _I_ don't mind the story." That seemed to perk Snufkin up a bit, prompting him to lift his head once more. "It's no worse than the pulley horse one, anyway."

"Or the Strömkarlen one," said a different one. Moomin recognised neither of those, he realised, and felt just a little wounded to know there were still stories which Snufkin hadn't shared with him. He had a right not to tell him everything, of course but… well… Moomin would have liked to hear them. He didn't know why Snufkin hadn't told him.

"What's wrong with those?" Snufkin asked. "They're honest stories. The latter was lived by yours truly." If Moomin hadn't already been interested, his ears certainly stood at attention now. An adventure of Snufkin's? Now _that_ , he _had_ to know.

"They're mean stories, is what they are. About mean people," the messy woodie from earlier told him as they flicked a bit of peach off their nails. This story suddenly turned terribly worrying.

"And some people are mean. It's an important lesson to learn as a child," their parent argued. Moomin wasn't so sure about that one. It didn't seem like a very pleasant thing to have to learn. Certainly he'd met mean people, but he much prefered knowing the good ones. And he wasn't very fond of the idea that Snufkin had bad encounters. No, Moomintroll wasn't fond of that at all.

"I highly doubt there's a man in a river who teaches people songs until they hurt," the woodie argued.

Oh goodness… Now, Moomin might not have known what man they spoke of, but he knew a misstep when he saw one. One never argued Snufkin's experiences, especially in music matters. Even if that sounded rather distressing.

As expected, the mumrik bristled. "Must I play you the songs he taught me again? I haven't a fiddle on me," he spoke back with a strain to his voice and oh, Moomin never liked when he sounded like that. His ears pressed back against his head, feeling scolded on the woodie's behalf.

"You haven't sense on you," the same woodie responded, staring their parent down defiantly. Moomin looked between the two, struck by the similarities, despite them being entirely different creatures. He could have chucked it off to the state of their unkempt hair, but it was more than that. They had earlier carried themselves with the same air of nonchalance, and now seemingly the same temper, frowning at each other like two upset lemmings.

"Who raised you to speak like that?" Snufkin asked with deceptive calm, the kind only one who had known him for long could see behind.

"Not you."

"Of course not me, why else would I ask?"

Moomin grit his teeth and sunk to the ground, watching on with apprehension and not quite knowing what to do. He'd never seen Snufkin bicker with the woodies, but he had witnessed many a disagreement between him and their other friends, most often Snorkmaiden or Sniff.

Snufkin had been very bad about that for a time, when they had just come out of their teens, losing his temper over the smallest of things, which had oft seemed inconsequential to Moomintroll. He had never been the target of Snufkin's anger himself, but he had born witness to many scenes. Moomin often got the impression that Snufkin simply had limited patience when it came to Sniff, and didn't truly mean to be so harsh. With Snorkmaiden, on the other hand, their fights had seemed almost deliberate, and she strictly refused to speak with Moomin afterwards, treating him as though he himself had done her wrong.

He had never found out what that was about, until one day the two had simply stopped, as though nothing had ever happened, and Snufkin had calmed down. Needless to say, seeing it surface now felt to Moomin like witnessing a case of explosives about to catch fire.

He found himself rising to a sit and reaching out for Snufkin before he'd even realised what he was doing. Moomin had never found himself particularly good with these matters, and it was Mamma, usually, who calmed everyone (oh how he missed Mamma), but the moment his paw fell on the other's shoulder, it was like a switch. Snufkin's head whipped to face him, and he blinked as though he'd forgotten the troll was there, any frustration seeming to drop out of him all at once. Moomin opened his mouth to say something, but in the end it was not him who spoke.

"Uh, the story!" came an agitated voice from the group, and Snufkin's gaze broke away from Moomin's just like that. Moomin did not follow his line of sight, keeping his own fixed on him as the speaker elaborated. "That's kind of what Renfana's play is about."

Snufkin seemed to take a moment to recall what they had even been speaking of. "What, the Strömkarlen?" Snufkin asked. "Is that what you're writing about?"

"Not at all!" the playwright—Renfana—denied, just as another woodie said, "it's a näck tragedy."

It seemed to be the wrong thing to say. Renfana, on their part, took quite the offense. Moomin was startled in dropping his paw from Snufkin's shoulder as their shrill voice rose.

"It isn't!"

Moomin's ears flicked about, trying to keep up as a squabble erupted in the rest of the group. He could only catch a few voices.

"They don't need a tragedy, they're already tragic enough."

"She should be writing a näck comedy."

"If it lives under the pier it's a näck."

"If it's got a back as overgrown as yours it's a näck!"

"Would you shut your trap! I'll throw you to the sea!" Renfana cried, red-faced and beating her fists by her sides. "It's not a näck! Nor a mermaid, nor indeed anything else you're about to suggest!"

"Well you said it's got a pelt," one of the others added on, clearly riling her up, but before the argument could continue any further, Snufkin jumped in.

"A Selkie?" The moment he had said it, everything stopped. Renfana turned to look at him, at first only surprised, and then her eyes lit up and she practically jumped in her spot with excitement.

"Yes! Yes, yes! It is!" She dropped back onto her rump, looked up at the sky and clapped her paws together. "By my tail, what a relief that someone knows! I've been struggling with this lot."

Moomin looked over at Snufkin curiously. For some reason he didn't seem as excited as she. He had that old look on his face like he was trying to be polite but had much to say, and Moomin couldn't leave him so.

"What's a selkie?" he asked, finally joining back into the conversation.

Both Snufkin and Renfana's heads turned on him. Thankfully, it was Snufkin who answered. "A seal that can take off its pelt."

By his tail! Moomin shuddered at the thought. "How dreadful! Like a monster?"

Snufkin blinked at him, taken aback, before his mouth curled into the slightest of smiles. "Not at all! Rather the opposite, in fact."

"The opposite?" Now Moomin was very confused. Losing one's pelt did not sound in any way nice.

"Without it they look much like a person," Snufkin explained. "They cannot return to the sea, becoming miserable and withering in time. Selkie stories are oft about someone stealing their pelts and forcing them to wed."

"Oh but that's terrible!" It may not have been so gruesome as what Moomin had envisioned, but it was truly no better. What a cruel story! To make someone so miserable for marriage… That was not love, Moomin thought. No, it had nothing of love. How could anyone wish to be wed so badly as to force another into it? How much more important was marriage than—"Oh."

The trouble dawned on him then. He slapped a paw over his eyes.

"Yes, I'm afraid so," Snufkin spoke calmly.

Moomin held back from asking if they could have any other play instead. It would have been rude. But in that moment he very much wished it had been anything else. Perhaps this whole idea had been a mistake. The last thing Moomin needed as a distraction from an engagement was, well, a marriage story. Moomin truly wasn't sure what to make of this news. He met Snufkin's gaze, trying to convey his trepidation. Snufkin returned it with sympathetic resignation. _It shouldn't be so bad_ , Moomin understood. If Snufkin thought it would be fine, then he was inclined to trust him.

Moomin knew they would have to get through this, and hoped the play wouldn't give anyone reason to keep concerning themselves with his affairs. Marriages were a common topic, there didn't have to be any connection between Moomin's situation and a story. Surely everyone could understand that.

Snufkin turned to address the playwright. "A selkie story sounds quite lovely. It'll be new for Moomintroll, and it's been some time since I've last heard one myself."

"You won't be hearing it, you'll be seeing it," Renfana pointed out.

"Yes, well, in any case…" Snufkin started, intending to add something which Moomin ultimately never got to hear, as the next second Snufkin had lowered his face to the woodie in his arms and licked a stripe against their hair. The woodie promptly squawked and attempted to squirm free.

"Still, Blomster," Snufkin instructed, but they wormed their way free before he could continue, and scrambled to put space between them in a haste. Snufkin was left staring at them, confusion evident on his face. "Goodness… they used to sit for that." He looked to Moomin as if he could somehow explain any of what had happened. "I believe I don't understand a thing anymore."

Moomin couldn't help but chuckle. When he looked back, Snufkin was staring at him with an unplaceable expression. Moomin quieted, and Snufkin turned his attention to the remaining woodies. "I suppose that's it. Go off and play now," he advised them.

"We're grown," the messy eater told him, looking very much as though they had no intention to move from their spot.

"What, do grown woodies no longer play?" Snufkin teased then. "Mumrikar and mumintrollen do. And snork alike! Mymlar and fuzzies..."

"And just what are we supposed to play?" another woodie cut in, sounding none too interested.

"There's always an adventure around the corner," he told them wisely. "Maybe a magic item or a mythical beast, or a mystery to solve."

"If you want a mystery to solve, I've got one."

Moomin and Snufkin both looked over to the woodie who had just appeared. The first thing Moomin thought was that this woodie clearly knew what they were about. They wore a nice tan coat over a bright yellow turtleneck, and had the beginnings of a nose marking, their eyebrows joining to trail down the bridge. They effortlessly stepped over their siblings' legs as they entered the circle. Their leather shoes were well kept but muddy. "Toppklocka and Stjärnflocka have gone off again. Booble knows where," they informed.

Renfana sat up straight in alarm. "What! Now? Where?"

"I haven't a clue. Up and ran off, it seems," the woodie in the tan coat said, crossing their arms and gesturing vaguely with one paw.

Refana appeared suddenly at a loss. They glanced down at their booklet, and then their face pinched in frustration. "Drat! Now they're just being problems on purpose!"

"What's the matter?" Moomin interjected. "They'll be back, won't they?" He looked to Snufkin as though his friend would have the answer.

Snufkin simply shrugged. "Not many places to get lost around here," he assured.

"Yes but they'll be back _late_ ," Renfana argued _._ "They're avoiding practice."

"Practice?" Snufkin echoed confusedly. "But you've only just got here. Surely there's no need to start that already."

"If you want this play anytime soon we're going to need to practice," Renfana told him firmly, staring right at him. A mere moment later she seemed to catch herself and faltered, dropping her gaze. "But now I'm missing an actor."

"Can't you practice tomorrow?" Moomin suggested. "It's so dreadfully late in the day to start anything."

"It's five," one if the woodies pointed out.

"Yes. Moomin's right. Much too late," Snufkin agreed, and as though to prove it he lowered onto his back, folding his arms behind his head. His hat tipped over his eyes with the action, giving him quite instantly the appearance of someone settling in for a nap, with no intention of letting anything disturb him. There was little chance of convincing him, when Snufkin made up his mind.

The woodies all looked to the one in the tan coat. Moomin did not miss how many threw them pleading looks. It must have been their decision. Moomin knew not quite what that meant, being unfamiliar with all the jobs in theater, but he had thought Emma in charge.

The woodie seemingly unsure at first, until they finally declared, "oh very well, we can skip one day. But first thing tomorrow we are having practice." They then directed their attention to Snufkin and Moomintroll. "Would you like to join us?"

"Would we!" Moomin responded excitedly before he could help himself. It had been long since he'd last been part of a play, and while he wasn't too keen to find himself on stage again, he was certainly eager to see a proper play come together.

The woodie in the tan coat nodded decidedly, and with that the rest eagerly returned to their own things as though the curtains had fallen. Renfana's hesitant gaze followed after them, and then settled on Snufkin, and finally she slowly picked her script back up.  
  
Moomin waited a moment, and then scooted himself closer to Snufkin. He flicked the brim of his hat and Snufkin snorted from beneath. Moomin lifted it up enough to see his face and asked, in a private voice for just the two of them, "what was that story they were talking about? The neck… or what was it?"

"Strömkarl," Snufkin answered back, his lips curled into a lovely smile. "Not quite a näck, but related. They're river spirits. Very good musicians and very handsome fellows, as they tend to be, but rather dangerous." He turned his eyes up to the inside of his hat then, recounting, "I met one oh, many years ago, who taught me the fiddle. I brought him some mutton and I feared he'd drown me but he was quite kind, if a rather strict teacher."

"I thought he was mean," Moomin interjected, and Snufkin met his eyes again.

"Many are. One wouldn't want children underestimating them." Ah, so he had lied. "And my fingers were rather painful, after the fact," he added, lifting the digits in question and wiggling them in Moomin's direction.

Sudden anger flared in Moomin. He turned Snufkin's hat over completely, letting it drop into the grass. "He hurt you?"

Inexplicably, Snufkin only let out a quiet little laugh, like he didn't want to be overheard. Sunlight was dappled handsomely onto his face. His paws fell down to his scarf, tugging the fabric straight against his chest. "Oh, no, no. But it's hard work, playing the fiddle for so long."

"Oh. Right." Sudden embarrassment swept over Moomin, and he looked away. That had been quite a bold assumption of him. But then again, he didn't know much about instruments.

Snufkin didn't say anything else. Moomin watched him close his eyes, and let him be. He sat there quietly beside him, simply watching the woodies.

Until Snufkin's words clicked into place and he hastily turned back to him. "A handsome fellow, you said?"

Snufkin only smiled.

For supper they had made summer soup with the vegetables of the season, mainly potatoes, carrots, cauliflower, and peas. They had resorted to using every pot that Moomintroll owned, and Snufkin's own for good measure. It had been distressing for Moomin to discover that they would all boil at different speeds, the largest one taking well into the evening to cook, leaving some of them waiting hungrily.

But only some, as Snufkin did not have the heart to make all of them wait, serving the soup as it was ready, into any bowl he could find, be it for soup or salad or mixing. Moomin let him raid the cupboards, not saying anything though he felt a stab of anxiety watching his precious china from Mamma in a woodie's paws. He only barely restrained himself from taking it back.

They didn't have much choice, Moomin only owned so much, and dishes had not been his first priority when there had been no one to serve, so they had to make do. As soon as each bowl was emptied again, Snufkin would snatch them up and quickly rinse and wipe them clean so that they could be refilled for a new woodie.

How Emma or her niece managed every night, Moomin had no idea, and he rather feared and respected them more for it. Perhaps being old enough now the Woodies feed themselves. Moomin was too embarrassed to ask, and couldn't very well leave them unfed, of course. It would have been very poor manners as a host.

He had, however, not said a word against it when Snufkin had begun to hand ingredients over to the children for chopping, for they needed all the help they could get. Snufkin himself was the biggest blessing, doing all he could. Whenever Moomin turned away or ran out of free paws, Snufkin would be there to mix. It was that, at least, that kept him from succumbing to the terrible busywork.

Their arms would at times cross over the stove, having to press into each other's sides to fit in front of it, and Moomin's heart would stick in his throat like burnt vegetables at the bottom of a pot. Better yet were the moments when Snufkin would touch his arm to gather his attention over the cacophony behind them, passing him a new bowl to fill or offering to replace him at his station. Moomin had a feeling he wasn't merely sweating from the vapours—though there was that too, of course. And the exhaustion.

Luckily for him, when all was said and done Snufkin had ordered the woodies to do the washing, so the two of them were able to split what was left of the soup into two bowls and sit for their own supper. Moomin made sure to scoop extra vegetables into Snufkin's serving, paying special attention to the peas, and evened out his own with broth so that other would not argue about fairness. They sat together at the table out on the deck (for Snufkin prefered it and all seats indoors were taken anyhow) and ate.

Later, when it came to making sleeping arrangements, Snufkin was nowhere to be found. Moomin suspected he had ran off so that none of the woodies be placed in his tent. So Moomin had been left with the complicated task of figuring out how to fit 24 adolescents into his home. Even with four guest bedrooms, it was hardly enough for them all.

In the end, he had elected to dig up every blanket, sheet, and pillow he could find, and had dumped them into the center of his drawing room, leaving them to figure themselves out, with the simple request that they leave him his bed, not wander about, keep quiet, and keep the lights off.

If a small part of Moomin wished they _would_ take his bed, or cause a ruckus, leaving him forced to beg Snufkin for shelter, well… he wasn't about to acknowledge it. It was quite an embarrassing idea to entertain. He certainly missed sharing Snufkin's tent, but he was a full grown moomin, no longer the sort to be running to his friend for comfort whenever his bed was stolen, or his parents absent, or his oven blown apart. Goodness, had he depended on him for a lot. No, he hadn't been that Moomintroll in a long time. He could care for himself now. He could even care for Snufkin, if he should wish to have the courtesy returned. Moomin would care for him so very well.

He wondered, if Snufkin had enough pillows, if he was warm, if his tarpaulin was dry. It wouldn't do to have him sleeping cold and uncomfortable. And Moomintroll had no blankets left to give him, only the pelt on his back, which he would offer, happily, if Snufkin were to need it; if he were to ask him to stay the night; if Moomin's bed were indeed gone and Snufkin were chilly and it simply made the most sense to snuggle close into that small tent and tuck Snufkin's head against his heart and hold his small paw and—

He was only going out for air, Moomin told himself. He felt stuffy all of a sudden. That was all, just some air. No other reason to leave contrarian teenagers alone.

What Moomin had not been expected when he set foot outside was to find Snufkin right there on his deck. Moomin barely had the chance to prepare himself, startling at the sight of him, and he suddenly forgot what he had meant to do entirely.

The mumriken was sitting atop the table where they had eaten, boots on the bench, paws clashed between his knees, and staring out to the water as always. Moomin had to admit it did look pretty, with the white night sky reflecting into it, a canvas of blues and pinks and oranges, decorated with the distorted glow of the third quarter moon that hung high above it all. One could easily get lost in such a peaceful sight.

And Snufkin indeed looked rather lost. Moomin wasn't certain if he had even noticed him, though such things were always hard to tell with him. Snufkin often tended not to react when approached, though it was nigh impossible to sneak up on him. Little My had proven that well enough over many years. Snufkin would simply glance at her with a smile, and continue to puff on his pipe.

On that matter, Moomin would have expected him to be smoking in that moment, but curiously Snufkin's pipe was nowhere to be found. One could have gotten the impression that he was waiting on something, or perhaps that he hadn't meant to be there.

Moomin stepped silently only the boards, not wanting to disturb in case the other was deep in thought, and carefully pulled the door closed behind him. His efforts proved rather pointless, for of course the other had likely heard the chatter that had briefly escaped from the open door.

"Have you put them to bed?" Snufkin asked without turning. His voice was too soft, as though he thought he could wake a house that wasn't sleeping, yet it resonated enough in the quiet night for Moomin to hear him without trouble. He'd never been very good at that, speaking at the right volume. He tended to be either too loud or too quiet. Moomin had long since learned how to listen. He always kept an ear trained on Snufkin, so he wouldn't miss a thing.

"What do I look like to you?" Moomin couldn't quite match his volume, feeling almost stifled by it, instead speaking normally. "Not easy putting twenty-four teenage woodies to bed. They're in the house. I've told them to keep the lights off but what they do, Booble knows, as long as they do not wake me."

Now knowing he wouldn't disturb, Moomin approached the table, and Snufkin scooted over to make some space for him, a silent invitation to sit and talk. "You could have helped," Moomin reprimanded, as he took the offered space on the bench, instead of his poor table. He had to look up at Snufkin like that, but he didn't mind. No, he didn't mind at all. He could admire all of Snufkin's features without the brim of his hat obscuring them. He rarely got such an angle, even if the darkness shrouded the finer details.

Snufkin hummed evasively, still looking out into the distance. The colours bounced off the dark of his eyes. "You could bear to take it off my paws for a night," he said. "I've had enough practice with the troublesome lot. Not as well behaved as I remembered them. But I suppose that's par for the course with teenagers." He paused, breathed in sharp and long, as if he'd been stung, and Moomin watched his eyebrows pinch. "How quickly it's come…"

Moomin wasn't sure what to say. Time seemed more compressed now that they were grown. It sped up every year, and yet it was still much the same—the same record in the same player, with the same number of songs, the same amount of grooves onto its surface. But it played so quickly now that he could no longer catch his breath. Days turned into nights and then days again. Moomin did so much, and yet felt he accomplished so little. He used to do so little of anything; he used to find days so very long. Now, every moment he wasn't moving forward felt wasted, for time followed behind him like a wall closing in.

But everyone Moomin loved now matched him in that race. He didn't have children to watch shoot up like sprouts. And, he hoped, his parents still had long more to go. Snufkin, however, was concerned with so many little lives. And Moomin did not know what to say to help that. So instead, he asked, "We weren't like that, were we?"

Snufkin finally glanced at him, for but a moment before he stared out again, seemingly thinking it over. "Hard to say. There were less of us, for one."

Moomin supposed thar was true. He thought it far better that way. They'd been a small group, but a close one. Unfortunately, however, small groups scattered easier.

Unsure of what to say, he watched as Snufkin brought one of his arms behind himself to lean on, and in the process knocked over the pepper mill which they had forgotten there. Snufkin's reaction was more unexpected than the accident. His paw startled away as his head whipped back to see what he had hit, and Moomin could only hold in his chuckle.

The mill caught in the gap between the boards before it could roll off, and Snufkin reached for it right away, picking it up. It was polished unpainted wood, shaped like a pawn piece. Moomin remembered how he'd struggled to fit the grinder into it. If the blades ever got too dull, that would be it, as he had no intention of ever taking it apart again. But he was happy with it, and happier still that Snufkin was appreciating it.

He reached behind the other's back for the matching salt shaker which still stood, and Snufkin stiffened like a board despite not being touched. Moomin hastily retracted his arm, and extended the matching shaker gingerly between his paws for him to see. Snufkin angled his head towards it with curiosity, fingers loosening around the neck of the pepper mill. He stared at for a beat, before hesitantly taking it. With the set in his paws, he looked very lost, and Moomin suddenly worried he'd done something silly, until Snufkin's thumbs started tracing over the indents and Moomin rethought, smiling at himself.

At times Snufkin was too high-strung and would lose track of a conversation and struggle with putting his thoughts in order. Usually, his pipe helped. But when he didn't have it Moomin had found that giving him something else to busy himself with usually focused him, and brought his thoughts out. He seemed to have a lot of thoughts, in that moment.

Unfortunately, it did not appear as though he was willing to share them. Moomin waited, but nothing came. He watched as Snufkin waggled the shaker and mill, ever so slowly bringing them closer and closer to each other.

Moomin opened his mouth to say something—anything, but was stopped in his tracks as the pawn-like pair clacked against each other, head to head like a kiss. He stared blankly at the display. Snufkin did it again.

"Have you gotten my shaker and mill married?" Moomin asked, more baffled than anything.

That did not even appear to surprise Snufkin, who paused, and, with an exhale, brought them apart, lowering each to rest against his knees. He looked down at Moomin as though he were daft. "Is that all you think about? It's a standoff."

"Oh." He felt silly now. "Who's winning?"

"Haven't found yet," Snufkin answered simply.

"Well, I think it'd be nice if they both won."

Snufkin stared back at him, silent and blank faced. As much as Moomin wanted to think he knew how to read him, there were times where Snufkin's features betrayed nothing at all, and Moomin simply could not piece together his stare. It always left him alone with what he'd said, reflecting on his words as if he'd been speaking to a mirror. And his words struck him as very embarrassing indeed. "Maybe I do need a break from this whole thing," he mused.

"You do." Snufkin set the shaker and mill back down onto the table, and slipped himself off of it. His heels resonated against the deck as he hopped off. "But you have things on your mind, don't you?" he then asked, meeting Moomin eye. "Come." He gestured with a flick of his wrist, turned his back to him, and walked off down the steps to the garden.

Moomin stood and followed. Snufkin led him to the place where the rose bushes made way for a ledge where the ground sloped downwards to the jutting rocks on one side—a spot he had claimed as his own, it seemed, judging by the handful of times Moomin had found him there. Snufkin crossed his legs and lowered himself, patting the space beside him. Moomin sat obligingly. A remaining rose and its neighbouring fruit hung in front of the sky. They held the same shades of pink and orange. Soon all his blooms would have wilted and the rosehips would have ripened to a bright red.

"All this talk of marriage and should-be's," Snufkin started, voice serene and rolling in his throat like it did when it was low. His eyes closed, letting his cheeks be traced by the faintest of light. "It's starting to sound rather familiar. Reminds me of another troll we both know."

Moomin knew exactly who he was talking about, struck by the sudden association that he hadn't considered before. "Oh, Snorkmaiden…"

"Is she well?" Snufkin asked, opening one eye to peak at him. The reflection in the pupil shifted like a gem before it settled on him.

"She's grand," Moomin told him. "I get a letter from her every so often."

Moomin was always excited to get them. Curiously, he realised in that moment that it had been some time since the last. He had been so preoccupied with Snufkin that he hadn't even noticed. Perhaps some things didn't change, he thought guiltily. But perhaps Snorkmaiden could also forget him, this once. It happened at times, that she would get so busy that she simply could not find the time to write him. And she had much reason to be busy, of late.

Still, he wondered with sudden concern if something had happened. He certainly hoped not. He reasoned he would have heard from Alicia, if it were the case. Or it could have been that Moomintroll had lost Snorkmaiden's letter. Though he thought he would have seen it, if it had come. It was hard to miss.

Befitting of her, those letters always came in a new coloured envelope, with a wax seal making them look grander than they were. Often Moomin would get a particularly thick one and find it full of newspaper or magazine cuttings about this or that, Snorkmaiden's business, things she thought he needed to see, or things she simply wished to speak about, even though he rarely understood any of it.

The letters themselves were rambling, written in small and swirly penmanship, compacted within a frame of stickers and pressed flowers. She would go on about her exciting new life, how she missed him, and Moomin would try not to feel just a little bitter. Every one ended with an invitation, but he hadn't the time! Not if he wanted his own life to lead anywhere. He couldn't risk missing his person. He'd been once, when she had opened it, before he'd truly left the valley. It had been grand and he certainly wished to return, and wished more to see her, but he had a responsibility.

"Has she kept out of trouble?" Snufkin asked.

"Of course not," Moomin laughed. An absurd idea. "Always some manner of trouble with her. She's much like you in that."

"Rarely the same manner of trouble," Snufkin pointed out plainly, a statement Moomintroll held back on arguing with. The two could be quite alike, but they never wished to hear of it. "But nothing of note?"

"Well," Moomin hesitated. Now he was quite unsure with where the conversation was going, though he supposed he had no reason not to tell him. "She's made herself a rival last I hear."

Snufkin glanced up at him with the exact wide-eyed apprehension Moomin would have expected. A mutual concern was shared between them. "Oh dear," Snufkin spoke. "Not in love, I hope."

Moomin was caught off guard by the suggestion, momentarily stunned until he frantically shook his head. "No, no! In gambling. Poker. In her own establishment." He frowned disapprovingly. It rather worried him at times. "Very illegal."

"Illegal? Can one no longer play poker?" Snufkin stared at him like he'd grown another set of ears, and it occurred to Moomin then that Snufkin knew not in the slightest how casinos worked.

"No, you—" Moomin closed his mouth, pinched the patch of fur between his eyes. How was he to explain this? "They don't use buttons. She's taking their money. And _she_ can't play, as the owner, because she has the advantage."

Snufkin simply blinked at him, brows knit, looking no less puzzled. Moomin gave up. He wasn't going anywhere with this. Snufkins and money matters were best left separate, after all. "It doesn't matter," he dismissed. "Just know that if they caught her she'd be in some trouble."

"Well," Snufkin accepted it all too easily, looking away again as if he could feign some subtlety, despite being easily betrayed by his tone. Moomin had a feeling there was more to this conversation, and that Snufkin had been waiting on the chance to dispense whatever wisdom he had now. There were few people (the Muskrat and Mrs. Fillyjonk, notably) who took half as much pride in their own philosophies. "How good then. A little excitement helps with the heart, when it isn't admiration. It's a step above her old habits, certainly."

"What are you talking about?" Moomin prompted, both out of genuine curiosity and for the sake of indulging him. Snufkin liked to speak his mind, when prompted, and Moomin liked to see him do it. He would straighten his spine just so before a lengthy conversation, like he'd hooked a fish—which Moomin supposed he had, as whatever Snufkin meant to say, be it actually wise or rather daft, Moomin was always keen on hearing it.

"You remember how Snorkmaiden was, before _and_ after you uncoupled," he started and oh, Moomin changed his mind on the discussion quite quickly. He had a feeling then that they were heading into dangerous waters. "Wishing too hard for romance with no good target for it, confusing fantasy with reality… that gets you in trouble."

 _Trouble, what!_ "Snufkin!" Moomin scolded, appalled. What a terrible thing to insinuate. "You wouldn't think that of her now, surely! She's married!"

"Don't be daft, Moomintroll, of course I don't," Snufkin assured him quickly, and dipped his head, hiding his face under his hat. "I know she has changed," he added, picking at a loose thread on his smock, where the seam tore, then clarified without prompting, "I'm only speaking of how she was before. She took interest in many a wrong character."

 _Those? What a joke._ Moomin remembered his fights with Snorkmaiden's conquests vividly. "You make them sound like they were brutes. They were wimps. Just prig. Cretins."

Snufkin peeked out from under the brim. "But were they not unloving? Inconsiderate? Disrespectful of her? Hardly any good."

"And that's why I was there to bash their heads," Moomin told him proudly, puffing his chest. He watched a quivering smile pull at Snufkin's lips like he were trying not to laugh, and Moomin took great pride in it.

"Not any less reckless, that," Snufkin reminded him. "It's landed you on your bottom more than once, from what I recall."

Moomin huffed, instantly deflating. "You don't have to be so dismissive. I've won plenty of times, and with my dignity!"

Moomin could not even stay hurt as that lovely titter slipped out of Snufkin, for just a brief moment. He pressed his paw over his mouth quickly and swallowed it down, trying to recompose himself. When he took it away, his lips were still curled into the smile and he had to yawn to relax the expression back into a blank slate. Moomin thought it very precious. 

"You're missing my point," Snufkin tried to say, though the amusement remained on his tongue and the smile slipped back out. Moomin watched him force it away once more and take a few breaths before managing to say, with better success, "she still chased them, until very late."

"What has this got to do with anything?"

Snufkin did not answer right away, clearly attempting to regain his air of seriousness. Moomin did not see why he needed it so. He much preferred that happy Snufkin. His face seemed to glow when he laughed. Moomin bowed low to better peer under the other's hat, hoping he would laugh again, but Snufkin firmly avoided his gaze, staring out in the distance.

"I'm simply saying," he spoke once he had gone back to his drab self, "it is easy to become reckless in love. And one doesn't grow out of it too easily."

Moomin stared at him, waiting. At times, Snufkin said things that meant nothing at all, and one just had to wait for him to speak his actual thoughts. Luckily it didn't take very long.

"I just worry who you'll end up with if you keep on this track."

 _Oh_. Moomin straightened back out, uncertainly fixing his eyes on his roses instead. He didn't know if he ought to be touched or upset. Of course he couldn't deny there was something to hearing Snufkin express concern over him that filled his chest to the brim. But he had also committed to this plan, and he was not liking all the holes that Snufkin had dug in it thus far. So if he was a bit defensive, one couldn't blame him.

"I'm not Snorkmaiden," was what came blurting out, quicker than his brain could follow, and he glanced over at Snufkin before he could help himself.

Then was a glint to Snufkin's widened pupils as he met his eye then, and a smile on his lips. It was that same kind of look he got when he was about to place a strong hand of cards, and Moomin knew he was in trouble. "How quickly you forget," Snufkin started, falling back into that same teasing tone as earlier. "Older divas, nymphs, girl scouts, seahorses…" _Oh! He would dare bring that up!_ "Anyone unattainable."

 _If that's the list, then you've forgotten Snufkin_ , Moomin thought petulantly. _The most unattainable and unfair of all._

"I worry," Snufkin continued, "if you're to court a Groke next, simply for she has shown at your door. I would keep the porch light off if I were you."

Moomin's fur puffed like a cotton ball. "Must you mock me? I would court no Groke!"

"Suppose not," Snufkin smiled, clearly not done with his ribbing. "You were rather more inclined towards inanimate objects."

Moomin gasped, and stuck Snufkin with a gentle tap to his shoulder. The rotten mumriken swayed with it, seeming terribly amused by his affront, and only fell into that beguiling laugh. The one that started in his throat and rang like chimes, high and airy and charming in every way. The rascal… He bent over his lap with it, clutching his own knees.

"There were real women! More real than there were wooden!" Moomin defended himself.

Snufkin had to turn his head away to even calm himself, once more bringing that small, lovely paw of his to his mouth to stifle the chuckles until they subsided. He had far too many tricks up his sleeve for making a Moomin forgiving.

"I am only pulling your tail, dear Moomintroll."

"Will you ever let me live that down?"

Snufkin turned back to him and uncovered his face, showing him his unmerciful smile. "No," he then answered, and tilted towards him, brushing the shoulder Moomin had hit against his arm, paw falling into the spot of grass between them. Almost close enough, but only almost. It was as much of an apology as he would get. Snufkin held no sympathy over the matter of figureheads. Luckily for him, Moomin was terribly forgiving, and very weak to simple contact.

His thoughts shifted like sand under the sudden flood of emotion, too big to make sense of for such a small action. He focused on the feel of Snufkin's smock, a scratchy, worn fabric that creased stiffly over his arm. If Moomin looked closely, he could make out the broken herringbone weave in it, thousands of darker V's against light blue combining to make the washed out shade he had first believed to be a solid colour.

What had happened to his old clothes?

Snufkin was not one to change so much simply by fancy. A little bit here and there, at times (and particularly when it came to shoes, as the Mumrik seemed partial to). But never like this. Never an entire outfit all at once. Never with the hat. Moomin tried to think of what could have possibly rendered his last clothes unsalvageable, and had to stop himself. None of the scenarios were pleasant ones. Already he worried about him, out there in the world. He always had. Every winter not spent hibernating was spent trying not to think of him and whether he'd return. The cold, barren landscape with its endless nights made Moomin prone to conjuring fears, of monsters or storms, empty bellies or snow that piled so high that one could sink and not surface, and nights so endless they could swallow one up if they were without a warm hearth.

He wasn't sure if he wanted to know the truth, but curiosity had him by the tail. There wasn't a thing about Snufkin he didn't want desperately to know. He opened his mouth to ask, but as it turned out, he had missed his window. Snufkin cut him off, voice pensive and serious once more.

"All she thought about was romance."

For a moment, Moomin could not figure who he was talking about, still thinking of Snufkin in his thin old clothes, shivering in the snow. It took him a beat to remember they'd been speaking of Snorkmaiden at all. Snufkin did not seem to notice, continuing his own train of thought.

"If you ask me, it seemed rather unhealthy. All those roles and games that were so very dreadful. Conjuring such fascination with kidnappings and damsel stories… And to chase after any stranger for it, to overlook things for want of love…"

What a thing to think! Moomin couldn't help but be offended on Snorkmaiden's behalf. "But she's happy now!" He argued. "Happy _and_ loved!" Why were they talking of this?

"Yes, now," Snufkin agreed. "But she had many moments before, where she thought herself too ready for such things."

That gave Moomin pause. As much as he hated to admit it, there was some truth to the words. That had been a thing about Snorkmaiden for a long time. She had kept an eye on the future as long as he knew her, always trying to chase after some idealised life. And she wasn't the only one, he mused. But back then… back then they had been going through it opposite. When Snorkmaiden would think herself ready, he would think it all too early. Every one of her attempts to move them forward had been met with reticence, and arguing.

"Oh. I do remember that," he said. And he did remember. All those conflicts, piling and piling up but always with the same issue at the root: an issue of commitment.

"Yes. That's where I was getting. You nearly married her."

Moomin looked at Snufkin then, hoping to gauge something from his expression. Perhaps some admittance that he had never approved of the idea. But of course, he was met with nothing. She was his friend too, after all.

"It was more that she married herself to me," Moomin clarified. "Or rather engaged at first, then married. It all went so quickly, Snufkin. It was just pretend, but she was so very caught on it. Made me wear that silly hat and the galoshes." He frowned at the memory. How he had let her convince him, he could not recall.

Snufkin, ever the compassionate one, only chuckled at his plight. "I did tell you they were rather so."

"You did. Not very nicely at that," Moomin bit back.

"Why be nice about it? You needed someone to bring you to your senses."

The words struck upon something meaningful, and Moomin looked at him even closer then. Really looked at him, this strange vagabond and all that he meant. This vagabond who had no business getting himself tangled up in these issues that were of no concern to him, yet who had done so regardless, and had continued to do so, even now. Snufkin may not have had reliable sense, but truly sense was not what Moomin needed.

Snufkin glanced at him like he could feel the shift in the air between them.

What Moomin needed was simply to have Snufkin there.

"You didn't have to let me come along with you," he said, and watched Snufkin's small paw stutter, his eyes avert. They fell quickly to his himself, looking for something to fiddle with, and the paw between them pulled back, leaving its imprint in the grass. He picked at that loose thread in the frayed hem of his trousers again, and did not meet his eyes.

"No," he replied, "but I thought it would do you some good."

Moomin hesitated on his next sentence for a moment, thinking it perhaps presumptuous, or embarrassing, for he had been wrong at that time and had underestimated the challenge of Snufkin's lifestyle. But, well… if they were already confessing to being foolish… "I thought I could live like you, with you."

Snufkin did not turn, nor speak, but Moomin did not have to hear it to know that Snufkin hadn't once believed that. From the very start, he had likely expected Moomin to turn around. Who wouldn't, seeing what he had packed? Moomin had brought all of his house with him. That was not the mark of a traveller. He was his mamma's son, after all. And Snufkin had known that.

"You led me back home," Moomin accused, and Snufkin still did not look at him.

"I only lead you. You chose to return to her, in the end."

That should not have stung. Yet it stung, inexplicably, like Moomin had been misunderstood. It left a familiar discomfort, like those moments when he wanted to reach for the other but knew he couldn't. Even with Snufkin's shoulder against his arm, Moomin couldn't find himself to be sated. He felt he had to explain himself, for to not be understood by Snufkin was the worst outcome that he could think of.

"I was too young. I missed my family. I wasn't cut out for travelling yet."

"And are you now?" Snufkin asked, finally looking up. He fixed those large brown eyes on him, pupils blown like the moon, as if it were a test of great importance, and Moomin could either fail or pass. It would have made him nervous, were it about anything else, but Moomin had learned from experience how to spot this particular trap.

"You wouldn't take me even if I were."

Snufkin blinked, and leaned away, satisfied. The sudden absence of contact made Moomin's chest sink. So little it had been, yet it was worse to have nothing at all.

"You're right. I wouldn't," he repeated, with a certainty that Moomin could have never doubted.

He ought not to have brought it up. It was an old matter, yet it hurt all the same. It should have been long settled, but Moomin had a feeling they would never quite reach the end of it. Even when they thought they had finally resolved it, it would come back, endlessly, just as the weather. It would be worded differently, or in a different context, or with different feelings, but it was always the same question at heart: "would you leave me?" And the same answer, a resounding "yes," spoken as kindly as one could when breaking a heart. Moomin had toyed with turning the roles before, but with Snufkin it was difficult. Moomin didn't know how to deny him. And Snufkin would have never asked _him_ that question, in any case. They had proved that. Even when Moomin had gone, Snufkin had been just fine.

His tongue soured at the thought. Silence stretched on. Snufkin let go of his clothes, instead pulling a blade of grass by his feet, twirling it between his fingers. Moomin watched him, that itch of miscommunication returning and, not wanting to leave the conversation hanging so, he hastened to backtrack,

"I did go back to her." That caught Snufkin's attention again, his hat inclining just slightly to show he was listening, a small relief as Moomin continued. "I may have hated it all, but even still I thought I'd end up marrying her. I thought it was only a matter of time, and I'd have to get used to it eventually."

"Everyone did," Snufkin answered as if that made the matter any better. _Did you?_ Moomin desperately wanted to ask. _Did you think wrong also?_ They had been, wrong, all of them. Moomin included. But he wanted to hope that, just maybe, Snufkin had been wiser. Just maybe Snufkin had anticipated a different life for Moomin.

Snufkin still did not look at him, and Moomin had to accept that Snufkin likely hadn't thought any different.

"We wouldn't have worked, Snorkmaiden and I," Moomin stated, unsure who he was saying it to.

"Of course not. You didn't know how."

"I should have known how," Moomin disagreed. He'd had enough time, enough failed attempts to figure it out. But he hadn't.

"You couldn't. We were children." The brim of Snufkin's hat lifted, and their eyes met at the same time, the reality behind the words dawning in him. Moomin hadn't understood back then what it meant to be coupled, try as he might. It wouldn't have mattered. Moomin had been building it solely upon false ideas of what it ought to be, never having grasped the reality of it. Snufkin's voice softened. "Perhaps we seeked too hard to be adults."

Perhaps they still did. Moomin looked out to the bay. "I feel I still haven't fully learned to be one, an adult. I'm taken by the fear that my life isn't moving."

"Even after all this?"

"Even after all this. I probably need to try harder."

"Why?"

 _Why?_ Moomin whirled on him, catching his balance against the grass. "What do you mean 'why'?"

"Well, does it have to move? Why can't it just stay the same?"

What an absurd thought! What were they, still children? Frozen in time? "It has to move."

Snufkin smiled knowingly, seemingly expecting his response. Sometimes Moomin worried they knew each other too well. "In a marriage way?"

"What else!" Everyone was getting married, why not him? Well, all right, it wasn't everyone. But still. There were only so many things for a lovestruck Moomin to do. "I have duties now, if I should like to be coupled with anyone," he reminded him.

"Must you? Be coupled?" Snufkin inquired still, and Moomin found he had quite enough of it.

"Yes!" he exclaimed, throwing his paws in irritation. "Yes, I must! Would you quit asking me such silly things? Unlike you, I don't wish to be alone."

"Who said I wished to be alone?" Snufkin continued on in his frustrating lack of understanding. "I have you, haven't I?"

 _Certainly not as I would like,_ Moomin thought. _You have me as you want me, but I do not have you._ "Don't act daft. You know what I mean."

"Well!" Snufkin made a show, sitting straighter and pressing his paw to his chest, though there was a smile on his face. "I am hurt to hear my friendship isn't good enough for you."

"Oh don't be like that," Moomin huffed, not as in the mood for jests, especially not of the sort. Snufkin's friendship was everything. Or it ought to have been. It would have been, if Moomin could bring himself to let go, but he was never very good at that.

Snufkin kept smiling, none the wiser to Moomin's guilt. "Look how things have changed," he pointed out with amusement. "I thought Snorkmaiden would have put you off it longer."

"Well it's different, isn't it? When I get to decide."

"You don't get to do very much of that, it seems, as you are leaving it up to fate," Snufkin pointed out. "I wouldn't call that foraging for berries, so much as stumbling upon a bush and settling for it. What if they're poisonous?"

"You just don't understand," Moomin accused, feeling very cross with that remark. "You never will."

"No, I won't," Snufkin, ever the difficult one, answered. "And I like it much better that way. Troublesome, understanding too much about things one cares not for."

Now Moomin found himself inexplicably quite frustrated. "I don't suppose you'd ever consider marriage for yourself, then?" he asked bitterly.

Snufkin looked at him as though he'd asked the strangest thing, and Moomin could not for the life of him understand why. Snufkin rounded his mouth into an O as if he were to say something, then closed it, seeming to rethink it. Finally he answered, "No, I wouldn't."

 _Of course._ "You must hate this then."

"Why would I? It is not I who is getting married."

Moomin bit back the urge to explain that no, he'd meant the rumours, about them. But truthfully he did not want to hear Snufkin say he hated those. He didn't think he could bear such rejection, even though he knew Snufkin did not think of him in that manner; knew it could never be.

"Can I ask? What makes weddings so dreadful to you?" he pried instead.

"Dreadful?" Snufkin echoed in apparent surprise. "Don't be silly." A smile pulled at his cheeks as if it were a joke, though Moomin could not understand what was funny about it. "There's nothing dreadful about them. In fact I find some quite nice."

"Some? I thought you'd only been to Snorkmaiden's."

"Oh, no! You could say I've stumbled in on a few in my travels. But I don't make a habit of it. Too extravagant, usually."

"Huh." Moomin had not expected that. Snorkmaiden's had been one thing, a pretty and animated event, but still very simple, in the way that they were used to, held underneath mamma's rose trellis. He tried to picture Snufkin at a stranger's wedding, in a big white building, among pressed suits and ruffled dresses, wearing his old tattered smock. He fit in more with the flower arrangements than the people.

"It's nice when it's others," Snufkin continued, "but I could never reconcile the idea of getting wed myself."

"If it's the grandness of it, why not something small, private, in a meadow somewhere?"

Snufkin smiled at him, looking more amused than swayed. "Isn't that just a promise then?"

"Aren't all weddings?" Moomin questioned.

He expected agreement, but all he was met with was a beat of silence, a falling smile, and a blank stare that made him sweat. "No, Moomintroll. No, it wouldn't be better," Snufkin told him, his eyes still boring into him. Moomin should have shied away, but he could never resist pressing when it came to Snufkin.

"Why not?"

"Because it's not," came the unhelpful answer.

"But why?" Moomin tried again, desperate to understand.

Unfortunately, Snufkin conceded, ducking his head and pulling down his hat, his fist clutching the brim. He explained in a quick, heated voice, the kind typical of him, where he didn't raise his volume, but frustration could be heard behind every word. "Because it's legal," he said, and Moomin understood all at once what part of Snufkin he had tapped into. "It's unnecessary complication, systems and laws, status, ownership… I don't want it. Shouldn't you know? I should dread to think of being someone's under a law. If I have to be anything, it is only myself, singular and untied to others."

It took Moomin great effort to keep his face under control, his muscles twitching of their own accord at the painful feeling that struck him. Snufkin did not see, and paid him no mind, continuing on, "in my life I can love who I want, and manage my own affairs. All of this paperwork has no business in my tent."

The daft part of Moomin couldn't help but argue, struggling to see the sense in Snufkin's logic. "But it wouldn't have to be like that! No one else would have to know."

"There's finality to a promise of that sort. And they'll know, anyhow. They'll make it complicated. These things always end up in someone's hands," Snufkin told him. "And it's more than that, I suppose. A statement, of sorts, or respect for myself."

"You're only thinking of rules again. Do you not think of love in any of this?" Moomin retorted.

"Certainly."

"Well?"

"I think that love is unsteady ground for building such things."

"You are impossible," Moomin snapped, suddenly very upset with him again. "What are you even talking about?"

"Well tell me, what if you fall out of it? What happens then, when you have tied everything you are and own to another?"

"Is everything you do dictated by the assumption that you will eventually run?" Moomin asked, and instantly regretted saying it. Snufkin looked at him the same as all those years before, when they had been children and Moomin would question his lifestyle. Like he thought Moomin didn't understand a thing about life. He made himself very cold and distant in those moments. Moomin hated when he got that way. There was no pulling him out of it. Snufkin was no good with such heavy feelings, after all. Show too much emotion in front of him and he would flee.

"It is never wise to trap yourself without an exit, Moomintroll," he said, voice impassive.

"It's not a trap," Moomin argued. "When you marry someone, it's because you know you'll love them forever."

"And yet you would marry a stranger," Snufkin pointed out, and Moomin nettled.

"You have no clue what you're talking about. You've never been in love."

The look he got was not one Moomin could have expected. Snufkin's face barely moved, yet Moomin could see the change in his eyes as they met his, like a wounded animal, still defiant despite the hurt. Moomin felt he had managed to step on Snufkin's tail, small as it was. He recoiled from it. "Have you?"

"Have I," Snufkin repeated, and Moomin did not like how easily he considered the question. He did not like it at all. It defied the very idea that Moomin had made of Snufkin. It was as out of place as seeing him at a wedding.

Moomin's mind had long settled for the blissful ignorance of thinking Snufkin didn't love. He had thought it would hurt less if Snufkin simply didn't love; if his solitude remained unchangeable. Then Moomintroll would not have to fear that Snufkin would ever make someone else an exception to all those things he had refused him. He didn't think he could take that, if Snufkin were to change for someone.

As it was, his moment's panic proved unfounded. "No, you're right, I haven't," Snufkin finally agreed, though he did not laugh and he did not smile and Moomin, oddly, only felt worse. "I wouldn't wish to make a habit of it."

Moomin's heart tore instantly upon hearing that, like a fresh loaf of bread; like a thin curtain caught under a boot. It tore with a horrifying ease. He blinked through clench in his chest like a fist. "You wouldn't want to make a habit of… falling in love? That's an odd thing to say," he spoke hesitantly.

Snufkin's words sat wrong with him. Those were not the words of someone who didn't feel love, Moomin could instantly tell. They were the words of someone who had very many difficult feelings on the matter, and perhaps an even longer story. Moomin suspected, then, that Snufkin wasn't being honest with him. Whatever he truly thought, he had opted to close the door in Moomin's nose. He didn't know why he couldn't tell him, of all people, when he must have known Moomin would do his best to understand. He could even less imagine what must have made him so averse to the concept.

Moomin, suddenly, did not feel as good about his hope that Snufkin wouldn't love. In fact, he felt incredible guilt for it then. He'd been very wrong to think it would hurt the least, when truthfully the idea of whatever cage Snufkin had built around himself hurt far more.

Snufkin kept quiet for a moment, and then stood up. For a moment Moomin thought he would escape, but he only stood, casting a shrouded figure against the glow of the horizon. For all its colours, all its beauty in those streaks of clouds like paint strokes, the sky felt bleak in that moment.

Moomin wanted to stand and shake him. He wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake him until all those small bolts and nails that held him closed finally fell out of him and Moomin could understand what was going on in his mind. Until he could hear whatever it was that Snufkin had chosen to hide from him.

He didn't, of course. He would never be so harsh. Instead, he opened his mouth, unsure what he would even say. He was stopped before he could even think of anything, by the sound of a door cracking open, loud in the quiet hum of night. They both turned to look as a figure stepped out onto the deck they had previously occupied, something dangling from their mouth.

A red flicker broke against the night.

"Oh." Moomin recognised it instantly for what it was. Snufkin, did too, of course, as any experienced smoker would have. Moomin could not make out which of the woodies it was. And even if he could, he would not have been able to name them. But Snufkin, undoubtedly, knew.

Moomin quickly turned to friend, watching his tense, still figure. Unsure why he even did it, but much like before, he reached out, touching his thigh, and Snufkin's eyes glinted as his head turned down to him. He seemed to hesitate, holding his gaze.

And then he blinked, and it was as though he had pulled everything back inside of himself.

"Goodnight, Moomintroll."

Moomin barely took in the words before Snufkin had taken the opportunity to slip out of his grasp and turned his back to the whole matter. Moomin sat frozen, not even following with his eyes as he retreated to his tent.

Slowly, Moomin pulled his paw in. He looked back at the woodie's shadow, and that steady stream of smoke rising into the sky, unsure what to make of it.

Belatedly, he realised he would be sleeping in his own bed after all.


End file.
